The Spaces Inbetween
by thequeergiraffe
Summary: Drabbles...or at least very short one-shots. No consecutive timeline. Various POVs. Slash, pre-slash, angst, fluff, etc. Each mini-fic can be read on its own.
1. In Which Sherlock is Persistent

**In Which Sherlock is Persistent**

_NSY, ten minutes. SH_

_I'm on a date, Sherlock._

_So politely excuse yourself. Nine minutes, thirty seconds. SH_

_I'm at least fifteen minutes away by cab, for one thing. And for another: NO. I'm on a date._

_Fine, why don't you just bring him or her along? Anderson will be there, so it's not like adding one more idiot to the heap is going to make a substantial difference. Nine minutes. SH_

"_Him or her"? Et tu, Brute? And have you forgotten how my last tagalong date went? Because I'm quite sure Sarah hasn't._

_Reasonably certain the attacks against Julius Caesar were of a more serious variety; don't be dramatic. And what was wrong with that date? I thought it went swimmingly. SH_

_You're deranged. Poor Sarah had to start seeing a therapist- MY therapist, actually, which makes it all the worse that she advised Sarah to break up with me._

_Oh God, ordinary dates must be dreadful. I thought that one had all the proper components. Well, until she nearly got herself killed, I suppose. Would it have been so difficult for her to tip her chair? Honestly. You managed to figure it out pretty quickly, somehow. SH_

_Right. Now I'm definitely not coming._

_Don't go in a strop, it was a compliment. It's really quite interesting to watch such a typically simple mind exert itself into sudden and occasional bursts of higher functioning. A rare treat, I assure you. SH_

_Good heavens, I'm blushing. Well, since my date just called me something colourful and stormed off, I guess I'll be meeting you at the Yard in fifteen or so. (I suspect she found your constant texting a little less amusing than I generally do.)_

_Pity. Make it ten and meet me in forensics. SH_


	2. In Which Sherlock is Art and Sadness

**In Which Sherlock is Art and Sadness**

_John:_

Christ, he's beautiful sometimes. Like right now, with the light from the setting sun catching him just so, the angles of his face made somehow both sharper and softer with shadow and warm, glowing light.

I don't feel ashamed, admitting that. Not really. (At least not to myself; I think I'd die if he knew it, or it somehow found its way on to my blog. Can you die of embarrassment? I don't want to find out.) But it's easy enough to accept. Maybe because I don't mean it quite the way everyone would assume I did. This isn't the same as my wide-eyed appreciation of Karen Gillan in her kiss-o-gram copper costume. There's something more…profound about it. The feeling I get when Sherlock looks like this is a lot like the feeling I got when I was a boy and went to the Louvre on a school trip. (Not with Mum, because who needs art when you've got gin? And of course, Dad was already gone.) The wait to get in was so long and boring that I was absolutely miserable by the time we finally made it inside…but the art! I don't have much of a critical eye, I guess, but I remember looking around those huge galleries and just feeling…dumbstruck. There's no better word for it. I remember one painting really struck me: Rembrandt's _Philosopher in Meditation_. I stood there staring at that one for God knows how long; pretty sure old Mr. Peters had to drag me away from it. There was something so sad and so peaceful about that painting. It felt like home, but there was still something untouchable about it. Yeah. The colors make me think of Sherlock, now, his chin pressed to his violin and his fingers just softly plucking, dust motes caught in a sunbeam and swirling around him in lazy circles.

Or maybe: the girl in Afghanistan. On my second combat tour, we swept through a little village that had been on the receiving end of some pretty intense American fire. They were clearing up the roadside for us, or so we were told, and leaving the remaining citizens more docile. Easier to deal with. The civilian casualties were, well…high. You try not to look too hard at their faces. The sunlight helps, makes you squint. But there was this girl. She was wearing a violet-coloured hijab, but I could still see her face. God, she was young- couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen- but I could tell the baby in her arms was her own child, something about the way she was cradling it, I guess. It wasn't crying. It wasn't moving. It was just laying there, limp and bloody in her arms. Of all the men that must have stared at her as our convoy rolled past, she chose to look at me. Her eyes were unbelievable: striking hazel against her dark skin, lined with heavy black lashes and lit with something dark and terrible from the inside. Her cheeks were damp, but her eyes were so clear, so intensely focused on mine. We didn't break eye contact until she was too far away for me to make out her face. I don't know why she stared at me like that, but I know it was beautiful and painful and sad.

Sometimes looking at Sherlock feels like that.

But then he does something- this time, he lifts his bony knees up to his chest and his face shifts out of the sunlight. He scowls at me and demands I tell him where I've hidden his cigarettes, and suddenly he isn't the achingly beautiful creature I've been staring at for a good ten minutes; he's just Sherlock. I smile and tell him to sod off, that I've thrown his cigarettes out and he'd better quit whinging or I'll toss his patches too, and his scowl deepens. I prefer this version of Sherlock, somehow. He's more human, more real. I almost believe I could touch this Sherlock, though I might not come back with all my fingers.

"Oh, take a bloody picture," he pouts, turning his face towards the back of his favorite chair, and I allow myself an almost wistful smile.


	3. In Which Mycroft Finds Peace in Doodling

**In Which Mycroft Finds Peace in Doodling**

_John:_

"Look at what I nicked," Sherlock grins, waggling a small leather notebook in the air. I lift an eyebrow, and he positively beams. "Took it off Mycroft," he explains, cracking it open. "He's always scratching away in this thing whenever we're in the air. Says it calms him."

I sit back and give him a small, perfunctory smile. Sherlock's just come back from the south of France, his nose and cheekbones rosy-gold, in an expensive new suit (perfectly tailored, of course) and with the joy of another case solved still fresh in his eyes. All at Mycroft's expense, mind. And I can't neglect to mention that we're sitting in one of the nicest cars I've ever seen, on the way to a restaurant I can barely afford to _glance _at, to enjoy a celebratory dinner- just the two of us, at that- on Mycroft's dime. Never mind that the man has paid our rent three out of the last five months, or that he's been discretely placing groceries and toiletries in our flat since I've moved in. Not that I don't enjoy his and Sherlock's little sibling rivalry, but I worry about the sharp decline our lifestyle would take if Sherlock decided to press one button too many. Looking at the worn leather and heavily thumbed pages of that notebook, I wonder if maybe this isn't that final button.

Sherlock lets out a low whistle. "That's deplorable," he mumbles to himself, quickly flipping through the pages. One of them gives him pause; his eyes widen and his mouth curls into a smirk that could only be called devious.

"What?" I lean over, try to see the page he's looking at.

Quickly, he snatches the book away and grins at me. He's put on his normal-person, oh-so-innocent look, and he says, "Are you sure you'd like to see it, John? I know how much respect you have for my brother, and how disappointed he'd be if he knew you were going through his personal belongings."

"Give me the damn book," I growl, and I take it from him without much difficulty. It's upside-down; I turn it over. Instantly, my eyes widen and my lips pull in to contain the varied and unpleasant things I'd like to say.

There's a sketch, done in simple pencil, and it's of me. Well, me as I was five years ago, maybe, although I don't recall ever posing so…seductively, being as there was a war going on and all. I'm shirtless, my dog tags showing prominently on my generously sculpted chest. Embarrassingly, my camo pants are slung low on my waist and my hip bones are protruding obscenely. "Oh, for heaven's sake," I groan, tossing the notebook back into Sherlock's lap. He scoops it up greedily and continues thumbing through it, sometimes emitting a sharp cackle of delight, sometimes merely snickering under his breath.

"There are dozens of them, John," he says with almost palpable excitement, his eyes positively shining.

I cross my arms and hope I'm not overly flushed. "You'll give that back to him right away," I say, in my best commanding officer voice.

Sherlock merely smirks. "I think I'll let you give it back," he drawls, setting it back in my lap (and open to an incredibly uncomfortable sketch of Mycroft and me kissing under an open umbrella). "That, or let him find it in our flat."

"You wouldn't."

"I will." He smiles at me, blinking his eyes in a way that he thinks makes him look innocent. Glancing back out the window, he sighs, "I knew my brother fancied you, but my oh my…"

My frown deepens, and I stuff the notebook in my chest pocket as the car slows outside the restaurant. Thankfully, we both forget it as we discuss the case over dinner, the details still new and thrilling even to Sherlock (though his story-telling, as always, leaves something to be desired).

Later, at home, I rediscover the notebook and grimace, my cheeks going pink. I have half a mind to look at the "dozens" of sketches inside its oft-used pages, but instead I stuff it in an envelope and drop it in the mail the next day on the way to Tesco, the sender's field left quite intentionally blank.


	4. In Which Sherlock Wakes John Up

**In Which Sherlock Wakes John Up**

_John:_

There's a creak at the foot of the stairs and I'm instantly awake. Without telling my body to do so, I find myself palming my gun and edging noiselessly to my bedroom door. My shoulder presses instinctively against the doorway, legs angled so that I can both see down the stairs and take cover with relative ease. I chamber a round, take a deep breath, and yank the door open fiercely.

Sherlock is standing on the top landing, his pale eyes impossibly wide and my gun mere inches from his face. Any reasonable, normal flatmate would have lost it at that point. There would have been wailing, or screaming, or just terrified shuddering. But Sherlock, to my absolute amazement, grins broadly and begins to laugh, just a small chuckle at first but then hard enough that he leans back against the wall, his breathing uneven and his cheeks red. I can't help it; soon enough, I'm laughing too, my gun drooping to my side. I'm laughing so hard there aren't any noises anymore, just breathless shaking, and Sherlock's much the same. He slips down on to his rump and laughs into his palms.

Eventually, I catch my breath. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and help him up, both of us still giggling intermittently. "Come on," I say, shaking my head and emptying the gun's chamber with a careful slide. "Let's go downstairs; I'll fix you a cuppa." My new flatmate nods messily, his face still screwed up with laughter, and follows me down the steps. I don't think to ask him why he was coming up to my room in the first place, and he never volunteers a reason.


	5. In Which John is Happy

**In Which John is Happy**

_John:_

We're leaning against a cool brick wall, each of our gasping breaths hanging in front of us and mixing so that I can't tell which puff of mist left my lungs and which left his. His breath is my breath. My breath is his.

At our feet a petty criminal lays quietly, the gentle of sleep of the newly unconscious. I hit him pretty hard, but to be fair: he deserved it. The bloke kind of had it coming. My knuckles are singing a little, a low deep song that began in the soft part of his stomach, but I don't mind. It feels good, even. I haven't done this in so long.

Beside me, Sherlock is texting rapidly. He's got a gash in his lower lip that I'd like to see stitched, even though I know he'll disagree. There's a muddy bootprint on his groin that makes me cringe each time I catch sight of it. But mostly, he's fine. I'm fine. Things are just bloody fine.

Sherlock slips his phone into his pocket and lays his head back against the brick, his eyes falling closed and his chest rising heavily. "All right?" he asks, even though I don't have a single mark on me.

I nod, laugh. "Yeah. You?"

"Very." He sounds pleased, or no- more than pleased. He sounds content. Almost of its own accord, my hand falls over his and I brush my thumb over his scuffed knuckles carefully. I can feel him watching me quizzically, so I turn my head and smile.

"I thought," I say softly, my eyes moving from the gash on his lip to the bob of his Adam's apple and back again, "that I'd never be happy like this again. Not after…"

I don't need to say the rest. He knows. Narrow-eyed, he examines my face, as if my words aren't enough and he needs to see it for himself. Whatever he finds in the lines of my eyes- the crease between my eyebrows, the corners of my mouth- seems to agree with him, and he gives the barest of nods. "And Mary?"

It's such a small question, but it's very nearly too much to swallow. I grapple with it for a moment before answering honestly, gently, "Mary's a good girl. She's been good to me." I know unequivocally that if Mary had been here and heard _that_ response to _that _question, she'd have been on the next train to her mother's in Dorset, and I'd have never seen her again. I'm half-glad she didn't hear it, doesn't know…and half-sorry. The warmth of Sherlock's hand under mine becomes uncomfortable, suddenly, and I draw my hand away, pressing it over my own heart.

"She seems…acceptable," Sherlock concedes grudgingly. He slides his thin, pale hand over the hand on my heart and adds: "But you're still my John."

I don't have anything to say to that. I reach up, brush away a bit of blood trailing from his lip, and nod. _This is enough_, I think. _Let this be enough._

And somehow, for now, it is.


	6. In Which John Gets Sacked

**In Which John Gets Sacked**

"We need to discuss our finances, Sherlock."

A low groan. "I _hate_ discussing finances. So tedious. Can't you just figure it out on your own?"

"Well, sure, that was easy enough yesterday. But in case you hadn't deduced it already, I got terminated at work today. So. Now we need to discuss our finances."

"I fail to see how _your _getting sacked is _my _problem."

"Well, since _you're _the one that got me sacked in the first place-"

"Now, now, John, we're both adults. I know we have our fun but I can hardly agree that I'm solely to blame for your poor performance at the surgery."

"Interestingly enough, Sherlock, it was _your _performance at the surgery that lost me my job."

"Oh, here we go! The incident again!"

"Yes, the incident! The incident! Did you think they'd just let that go? You scared poor Mrs. Henley near to death."

"Psh. Come off it. All I did was bump her down in queue-"

"You stormed into my office, soaked in blood, tomahawk in hand, pointed at Mrs. Henley and told her 'You're next'. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but that's pretty much the most frightening and ambiguous way of jumping someone in queue I can imagine."

"It was _my own blood,_ John! And of course I said 'you're next'; I meant next in line. As in, hullo Mrs. Henley, could you please step out into the hall because I'm reasonably certain I'm bleeding to death, thanks so much pet, give us a kiss before you go."

"Which reminds me: why on Earth did you come to the surgery instead of going straight to the A & E?"

"I spend half of my free time in Bart's, John, I know the idiots that work there. Besides, I was closer to you anyway."

"Right. Of course. And the tomahawk came into play because…?"

"I _told _you, I was investigating the likelihood of its use as a murder weapon in the case I was working on."

"Well for God's sake, Sherlock, you could have called me."

"I prefer to text."

"Well then you could have _texted_, blimey. You're really oblivious, you know that?"

"Oh, calm down. I've got a new case and I need you free anyway. You can work out a payment with the client, and I'll put my brainpower to _good _use."

"…That…that sounds fine, actually. That could work."

"Good, see? No more moaning about blood and tomahawks and _poor _Mrs. Henley. Let's put it behind us."

"That's exceptionally diplomatic of you, Sherlock."

"Hmph. Great, grand, excellent. Now fetch me my mobile; I need to send Lestrade a text."

"Where is it?"

"My pocket."

"Your-." A deep breath. "Right. Here you go, you're welcome. I'm going to go fix some tea."


	7. In Which Domestic Life Suits John

**In Which Domestic Life Suits John**

_John:_

"Back at Baker Street," I smile, glancing around the sitting room. I am pleased, genuinely pleased, for the first time in months. The little flat is warm and cluttered with Sherlock's things- not the ones I remember, of course, those having been donated to charity when Sherlock 'died', but his things nonetheless. I rub the soft fabric of the sofa's arms and smile even harder, my cheeks already starting to hurt. _Baker Street._

Sherlock is smiling too, his long body draped across the carpet, his hands hidden in the mess of dark hair that he still styles just the same, as though nothing had changed in the last three and half years. It almost feels that way, with his name cleared and the old flat surrounding us on all sides. It's almost easy to pretend that nothing's changed.

"I've had Mrs. Hudson tidy your old room," Sherlock says, snapping me out of my reverie, "so you can bring all your things from Sarah's-"

"Mary," I laugh. "Her name is Mary. And what on Earth are you talking about?"

Sherlock's turned his head to me, one eyebrow raised. "Your room. Upstairs?" He wiggles his fingers towards the steps. "I expect you'll want to move in immediately."

"Move in?" I sit up in disbelief. "Sherlock, I… Surely you don't expect me to move back in?"

Sherlock sits up as well, pivoting on his bottom so that his robe bunches around him. "The commute from here to Sarah's flat-"

"_Mary. _Mine and _Mary's _flat."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock continues: "-_Mary's _flat is far too impractical. Too much distance. I need you to be on hand quickly if we're to get an urgent case."

The cases, I'd almost forgotten. Of course, after the mess Sherlock had left behind him, he wasn't allowed to play "consulting detective" anymore…so they'd made him an actual detective, with his own badge and everything. Dangerous stuff. Sighing, I remind him: "It's great that you're back to work, Sherlock, but I've got my own job to contend with, and I might add that my surgery is only three blocks from me and Mary's flat."

"You're staying at the surgery?" All incredulous, like he'd expected me to drop everything and pick up where we'd left off.

"Of course I'm staying at the surgery. I've got bills to pay, haven't I?"

Sherlock dismisses this with a huff and flap of his slender white hand. "My pay is sufficient to sustain us, I presume."

I put my hands on my cheeks and take a deep breath. "Please tell me you're joking." My old friend's blank stare tells me his decisively is not. "Unbelievable. Sherlock, I'm _married_. I can't just run off on adventures all whismy-nimsy like I used to. I live with my _wife_, in a flat that I pay for with my _job_. Are you following this at all?"

His head turned at a slight angle, Sherlock almost looks childish in his confusion. "You're married?"

"You can't be serious!" I leap up, half-angry, half…I don't even know. Amused? Delighted by the fact that Sherlock never, ever changes? "Yes, yes, I'm married, though how you haven't managed to figure that out in the two months you spent kipping on my couch-"

"I had other things on my mind," Sherlock sniffs. "I was a fugitive, as you'll recall." He presses his hands together just below his chin, his eyes distant. "Very well. Mrs. Hudson will be disappointed." Looking around the room, he sighs almost theatrically. "Though I suppose I _could _keep the place, use it as a laboratory or a headquarters of sorts. Hmm."

"What…" Now I'm exceptionally confused. "What are you…I don't…well, where are _you _going, then?"

"To your flat," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Tell me, how does Mary feel about the violin?"

"Sherlock!" I'm exasperated at this point, my temples beginning to ache just a touch. "You can't move in with me! I'm _married_. My wife has a normal job, just like me, and she needs to be able to sleep at night. You can't live with us."

"So, we're to live separately?" The idea seems foreign and wholly unwelcome to him. "But…what if I need you?"

"Send me a text." I yawn; the surgery was busy this afternoon, and I'm ready for a nice home-cooked meal and a lie down.

Sherlock eyes me with something bordering contempt. "Huh! Domestic life suits you, does it? Yes, I can see that. Shall I ring Mycroft for some diet tips?"

I smile wanly. "Hilarious, Sherlock. Yes, let's get all pouty." I stand and scoop my coat from the armrest, tugging it on with a stretch of my tired muscles. "I'm going home. But listen: I'm off tomorrow, so I'll call you and maybe I can swing 'round. Sound good?"

Sherlock doesn't answer me. He falls like a fussy child on to the couch, the line of his back rigidly turned towards me. This, I think is the most I'll get from him tonight. With a clearing of my throat and a quick "good night, Sherlock", I slip out of the flat and down the stairs, sparing Mrs. Hudson a kiss the way.


	8. In Which Sherlock Grapples

**In Which Sherlock Grapples With His Feelings (and John)**

_John:_

"I'll be so careful, Sherlock," I breath against the back of my flatmate's neck, dark curls tickling my lips. My hand is hovering mere centimeters above Sherlock's hip and I can hear the plea in my voice as I whisper, "So careful." I know I sound desperate but I don't care, because I _am _desperate. Every cell in my body is aching for this.

It's the most miniscule of movements, but Sherlock shifts, and the soft fabric of his cotton pyjamas connects with my impossibly steady hand. I'm not trembling, oh no, because fear makes me strong and right now I am more frightened, perhaps, than I have ever been in my life. But nothing Sherlock does is unintentional, I know that. That little shift was consent. The smallest fragment of my terror recedes as I tighten my hand, just a little, on the jutting bone beneath it and drop my lips so carefully to the smooth skin of Sherlock's neck, just on the nape. Sherlock lets out a small breath, twitches his hip up a fraction.

My heart is hammering. All the little looks, the strange remarks, the awkward tension…how long have I waited for this moment? And now that it's here, I'm not entirely sure how to proceed. Unfamiliar territory, in all respects. It's not just that Sherlock's a virgin, or a _man _(don't think about that too hard, mate, or things will really stop making sense), but it's that this is _Sherlock_. The man is not exactly an open book. And I am absolutely terrified that I'll do something to scare Sherlock away.

_Sherlock:_

John's lips, his tongue, sliding down my earlobe (pinna? auricle? the linguistics currently escape me—I feel him move from cartilage to fleshy skin and the transition makes me dizzy) in the smallest of measures. His breath is hot and leaves his mouth in tiny, trembling bursts.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The world is an uncomfortable kaleidoscope of sensation, and I need him to _stop_ because it's too much and the noise in my head has reached a pinnacle of almost unbearable volume. _Stop, stop._ Arousal feels like fear. My heart rate is increased (by how much, Sherlock? I'm too frightened/overwhelmed/engaged to count) and my breath has become shallow, quick, so that I sound as though I've been running. (I want to run. I want to dash down the stairs and out of the flat.) Increase in blood pressure. Flush across the cheeks, neck, chest. (John's hand trailing a lazy circle there, toying with the top button of my shirt, his mouth moving carefully to my neck.) Like fear, this new sensation makes my hands- curled into tight fists around the balled up sheets of John's tidy bed- tremble.

"It's okay," John whispers. His voice is so calm, so steady. I want to believe him, almost _do _believe him, until the hand that had been toying with my shirt brushes down low, low, impossibly low on my stomach and a blaze of emotion washes through me like napalm.

"No, no, _no_," I beg, rolling away from him and toppling to the floor in an untidy heap. I sit up on my knees and peer at him from over the mattress, my breath catching in my throat. Even through all this _muck _of feeling I can still see everything, _everything_, and it disgusts/fascinates/alarms me that I'm worried for John, worried for the stricken look on his face and the guilty darkness taking over his eyes. He thinks I don't want him; he's wrong. That's the problem, of course. I _do _want him: every chemical in my body says that this is normal, natural, good. But when have my body and I ever agreed on anything?

_John:_

Sherlock's peeking at me like a frightened child, and my stomach clenches horribly. Oh God, what have I done?

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry, please-" I begin, but he shakes his head until his dark curls are falling into his eyes and I go quiet.

"_No_," he says emphatically, the word ringing through my little bedroom. I feel sick. How could I have been so stupid? I had been so sure he wanted this, but who could be sure of anything with Sherlock Holmes? And now I'd lost him, probably forever-

I don't know how he gets there so fast, but Sherlock is in my arms before I can finish that thought, his mouth pressed roughly to mine and his hands, so thin and delicate, searching my body frantically. I reach up to touch him instinctively and he leans back, snarls: "_Don't._" So I let my hands fall to my side as he kisses me into a stupor. It's hard to breathe, hard to think. His body is so warm and his hands are so impatient; it feels like they're touching all of me and not enough at the same time. And then he's gone just as fast, his footsteps echoing down the stairwell.

_Sherlock:_

Tingling. My whole body tingles. The cool night air does nothing to dissipate this heat. Heart: thrumming. Mind: unreliable. Pulse: highly elevated. I look down at the stretch of Baker Street below- the rooftop is an exceptional vantage point, as well as a much needed seclusion- and touch my thumb to my bottom lip. Swollen, slick. I fancy I can still feel John's lips against mine. Ha. Sentiment? Anything is possible tonight, I suspect, even that.

I can feel all the symptoms of arousal retracting, and it only solidifies the fact that they were _there _in the first place. Why? I fish around in my dressing gown's pocket, withdraw the identity tags I'd nicked from John's dresser. His name is a series of indentations beneath my thumb. My life, by my estimation (and of course mine is the only one I value, except maybe John's) has experienced some unquantifiable benefit from John being in it. A mystery. That's a laugh; aren't mysteries my area?

I smell like him. My mouth tastes of his. I can feel the impression of his fingers on the bone of my hip. I feel like I _need_ something, need it the way I needed cocaine in the past, the way I need cases and nicotine and adrenaline. John's touch is an addictive substance; I find this doesn't bother me as much as it perhaps should.

Pressing my ear to the shingles, I imagine I can hear John below me, the creak of the stairs and tell-tale whistle of the kettle. That would be typical- it is a singularly British trait of John's to rely on tea when in need of soothing. Does John need soothing? Am I a percolating presence in his life? I smile at the thought. Yes, that makes sense. John's my cocaine; I'm John's battlefield. The air makes me shiver slightly, and I pull my dressing gown more tightly around me. In a few moments, John will come up and coax me back into the flat with the promise of tea and distance. I will allow it. I'll allow him to lead me downstairs, to set me at the table and pour me a drink I don't want or need. I'll watch his work-rough hands circle his own mug as he explains, apologizes. I won't say a word. And when he's done expelling all that stupidity all over our kitchen, I'll stand and press my lips to his and whisper into his mouth: "Shut up, John." And he will.


	9. In Which Molly Fetches the Coffee

**In Which Molly Fetches the Coffee**

_Molly:_

I slide into the seat beside Sherlock, my chin up and my shoulders straight. That's what Mum said to do: be confident; laugh a lot; flirt with his friends. Right. I can do this.

"Hiya, Sherlock," I say, my voice much too high and silly. He doesn't even glance up from the sample he's examining with the lab's best microscope. (Quite the high-powered gadget, and I'm pleased pink that he likes it because _I'm _the one that put the order in for it last winter.)

He does, however, surprisingly acknowledge my existence with that impossibly deep voice of his. "Molly."

Oh no. I've just let out the shrillest and bumbliest peal of laughter I've ever heard. Sherlock spares me a quick and agitated sideways glance before going back to the sample, and I can feel my face reddening horribly. Quick: think of something to talk about before I melt away into a puddle of nerves and self-ridicule. "How're things with the new flatshare? Hope he isn't too loud or- uhm- messy." I laugh again, aware that I am completely ridiculous, and brush my hair (parted way off to the side, just like Sherlock likes it) out of my face.

Sherlock sits up and sighs deeply, like he's resigning himself to the fact that I'm not going away, and I try not to wince at his tone as he drawls, "John is a perfectly acceptable flatmate. He's fastidiously neat with his own belongings, yet incredibly patient about the various messes I leave about the flat. Disarray suits me- makes it easier to find evidence of tampering- but John manages to somehow _not _infuriate me when he tidies up. And he never unsettles my experiments." Dropping his eyes back to the lenses of the microscope, he adds, "As to the noise…he can be aggravatingly quiet when he thinks I'm doing some important bit of research. It's better when he's being noisy; the ear acclimates to silence and provides a dull ringing that I can't stand. He watches rubbish on the television far too often but he never complains when I play violin in the middle of the night or when I don't answer all of his insipid questions, so." He ends his soliloquy with a little tip of the head, as if to say "that's that, then" and begins adjusting the dials on the side of the microscope.

"He sounds perfect," I say automatically, not even bothering to hide the jealousy in my voice. But I'm not jealous that Sherlock's found a decent flatshare; I'm jealous because I know that Sherlock will never, ever talk about me with such an approving tone. I suddenly, stupidly, dislike Sherlock's new flatmate.

Sherlock makes a small noise of agreement and swaps slides, his eyes narrowing. I rub my lips together (I'm wearing a touch of lipstick so that my mouth doesn't look too small) and remember what my mum said. _Flirt with his friends._ Clearing my throat, I ask shakily: "So, this John fellow…is he, erm, uh, is he seeing anyone then?" It feels like the wrong thing to say as soon as I've said it; Sherlock goes entirely still, his hand paused in mid-air.

He lets out a breath and brings his hand to the microscope, but his jaw is still tight. "No, although I don't imagine you're his type. John thrives on authority, and you're nothing if not unintimidating. Still, I'll be happy to pass the word on for you."

While I'm still debating this (and the absolute mortification that will come if John turns me down, or- somehow worse- if he shows an interest in me) when Sherlock sits up and graces me with one of his joyless, smug smiles. "Of course," he says, a dark edge to his voice, "I have to wonder at your sudden change of mind."

"Wha-" I begin, but his smile just grows wider and I falter uncomfortably. Oh God, I shouldn't have said anything! I should have just left well enough alone. Mum and her dreadful advice; I'm going to ring her as soon as Sherlock leaves and give her a good old-fashioned dressing down for this.

"You met him," Sherlock states, and I just know he's going to analyze this whole little discussion to death. "You barely glanced at him- too worried about whether you'd made the coffee to my satisfaction, and to answer that: no, you didn't, I clearly said two sugars and yet I tasted three- so it's not his physical appearance you find interesting."

Got me there. John's not a bad looking bloke but he's not nearly as fit as Sherlock is, either. And I've never been much for blondes, anyhow. Mum's always said I get carried away over the Mr. Darcy types. "Well…no…" I say, mostly just to fill the uncomfortable silence that's stretching between us.

"No, of course not, John's barely taller than you and not nearly posh enough for your taste," Sherlock grins (what a dreadful grin he can wear sometimes, looking every bit the bully) and I try to fight down a blush. He goes on: "So, what changed your mind? You know he's a doctor, but someone like you isn't motivated solely by wealth, although clearly you do like the _appearance _of wealth. An ex-soldier won't hold your interest; too rugged. So, what else? From our conversation you know him to be tidy, patient, and a fan of- I suspect- the same crap telly you prefer. Why would that draw your sudden interest?"

He leans back in his chair, studying me carefully, and I can feel my ears going red. Why, oh why, did I ever think playing mind games with Sherlock bleeding Holmes would work? The mild curse, even though it's just a thought, embarrasses me even more and I sink down in my chair. Honestly, right now, I wouldn't mind it at all if I just disappeared. Poof. Then Sherlock could have a grand old time trying to figure out how I managed it and we'd both win. "You're not interested in John at all," he says after a short length of time, his eyebrows pulled together. "Interesting. But then why ask?" His brows lift, suddenly, and his eyes widen. I have the strong and sudden urge to cover my face with my hands as he mutters, "Ah," and turns back to the microscope, apparently done with me.

My voice shaking a little, I ask, "I-I'm just going to pop down for a coffee; want anything?"

"Two sugars, Molly," he says, not looking at me. "Not three. Two. And make it fresh."

Nodding slowly, I stand (oh goodness, my knees feel like water) and walk out of the room, only knocking over one thing on my way. As soon as the door clicks closed, I yank my phone from my lab coat's left pocket and dial.

"Mum! How could you?" I hiss, moving down the hall, as Sherlock's voice in the back of my mind repeats: _Two sugars, Molly. Not three._


	10. In Which Sherlock Listens

**In Which Sherlock Listens**

_Sherlock:_

The tell-tale squeak of the boards above me announce the beginning of John's daily (well, nearly so- when I've not caused an interruption to his precious routine) work-out. I lie back on the sofa, my palms pressed together above my sternum, and listen. Fifty push-ups. Fifty crunches. It's barely six, but he's already had a small breakfast (I pretended to sleep as he fixed himself toast with jam and a cup of tea, but he looked quite content when I peeked at him) and dressed in his old military track suit. Oh, there now…what's that? Jumping jacks? No, no. More like knee-raises or some other ridiculous manoeuver. I allow myself a small smile at the image. John has been quite the athletic enthusiast of late, considering the man was limping about with the aid of a hideous hospital-issue cane a scant two weeks prior. Fascinating.

A creak at the top of the landing. I let my breath out slowly and sit up, smoothing my shirt (expensive, custom-tailored, approximately five more cleanings before I discard it, small snag near the cuff that would be near-impossible for the average person to detect but which agitates me endlessly) and adopting a very casual pose. John clomps down the stairs (his trainers annoy me with their very existence, all squeak and gauche and ugliness, but I find I'm very fond of his RAMC jumper and the way it fits across his small shoulders) and throws me a wide, genuine smile.

"Awake, then?" He's chipper, but that's not unusual. Every line of his face bespeaks his gratitude towards me; he would not be going for a run this morning, after all, if I hadn't "cured" him. Nonsense. I was only proving a point. However: while gratitude normally irritates me (unless I can use it to procure some advantage), something about John's version of gratitude sits nicely with me, like the first sip of a warm cup of tea on an autumn evening (I _must_ stop reading John's terrible love poems; they are clearly affecting me in ways most unfortunate). I like him. The fact that this is mutual is at once alarming and incredibly intriguing.

His question is both rhetorical and stupid, so I don't answer it. Instead I settle back against the couch and watch him check the knots in his laces and stretch. "I'm going for a run," he says- obvious- and then adds, as he always does, "Need anything while I'm out?"

I have never seen reason to respond to this question, so it doesn't surprise me at all that he only waits for a half-beat before nodding (one quick, small movement, subtle, with a blink tossed in at the end for good measure) and turning to the stairs.

"A harpoon."

He pauses. I fight back a smile as I read the line of his back (he thinks I'm joking, but he knows me well enough by now that even as he thinks that he decides I'm probably not) and the mix of astonishment and amusement on his face as he turns around, one foot on the landing and one foot on the stairs.

"A harpoon?" He rubs his hand across his chin (I learned this tell quite quickly: disbelief coupled with bemusement, one of my favorites among John's various gestures) and drops his chin to look at me from under troubled brows.

My face is placid, smooth, though the corner of my mouth twitches in a shadow of a smile. I don't repeat myself, but I don't need to. He's run through it all (and swiftly: 38 seconds, _oh John_) and decided 1) I am not being factitious in the least, 2) I genuinely would like him to bring home a harpoon, and 3) he is going to at least try to do as I've requested. The twitch of smile becomes the real thing; I can't recall the last time I've been so pleased with a person who wasn't dead or providing me with interesting crime scenes.

"Okay," he says slowly. He's puzzling; I read the thoughts scrolling across his face. _Where am I supposed to buy a sodding harpoon, for God's sake? How am I supposed to get the damn thing home? Christ: how much does a harpoon even cost?_ At this I withdraw my wallet and pass it to him silently, and he rewards me a look so magnificent that I tingle with delight. No, I can't read his thoughts directly, although he sometimes imagines I can. But he's so open, so readable (most of the time; when he wants to, he can close right up and go as empty as Anderson's hollow skull, but he almost never does this unless I pry about Afghanistan or pester him just after a nightmare) that it almost seems I can.

He slips my wallet into an interior pocket of his trackie bottoms (and I'm granted access to the sounds of his keys- two for the flat: main door, our door; and one for his lockbox, which is exceedingly dull and contains only 'important documents' and other dull and pointless drivel- along with his mobile, his own wallet, and a small mp3 player that I haven't seen but deduce is an iPod shuffle by its size and heft in relation to the other items) and smiles at me. "Okay," he says again, but with much more confidence, "one harpoon, coming right up." I watch him skip down the steps (he still favors the other leg, but only just, and it's been fading more and more each day) and lie back down on the sofa, stretching my legs before crossing them. Lestrade will call me soon- I read the paper when John was done with it, I know how hopelessly out of his league he must be with this new museum burglary- but for now, I close my eyes and imagine John hunting through antique stores, inquiring of the tellers (some of whom will be older than the items they're trying to hawk) as to where he might purchase a gently-used harpoon.

x

The case is not difficult, but there are variables (a frightened witness; a perpetrator with exceptional skill in the use of throwing daggers; a car chase that results in a not-too-pleasant crash; running, and lots of it) that keep me out until nearly dawn. I enter the flat with something slightly less than my usual lithe grace and head towards the kitchen. My body might be mere transport, but it occasionally cries out for fuel and I find, tonight, that I must acquiesce. I know John did the shopping yesterday (man of routine, always does the shopping on Monday mornings) and I hope against hope that he managed to get something more sustaining than beans and Jammie Dodgers.

All this flees from my mind (or, rather, merely ducks back around a corner and awaits my return) as soon as I set eyes on the kitchen table. There it is: my prize. Wrapped in a thick red bow, the harpoon lays rusting before my eyes. It's a togglehead, probably from somewhere in the 1860's or 1870's, though I doubt John knew that when he purchased it. It is beautiful, and perfect, and I run my finger along the whalebone head with something like awe building in my chest. _John_. There's a note tucked into the bow, and I withdraw it carefully, unfolding the paper (poor quality, economical, torn from a small notebook which I have not seen and now desperately want to discover) to find these words:

_I hope you're aware that I know bugger all about harpoons. (Who am I kidding? Of course you're aware.) This one better suit- the woman at the shop was VERY clear about her return policy. And if you actually were joking and I've just made a fool of myself, well…you're the one who's out 600 quid. So joke's on you._

_J. Watson_

I brush the lunula of my thumbnail over his name (so military- it will be three or four weeks, by my estimation, before that habit breaks and he becomes simply "John") and actually, genuinely grin. This is a remarkable ability of John's; he gives me pure, honest pleasure. A very companionable feeling stirs inside me, overriding the almost sickening hunger that gnaws at my stomach. I've been introducing John as a colleague, but that doesn't feel quite right anymore. Perhaps it's time to switch to "friend".


	11. In Which John Enlists

**In Which John Enlists**

_John:_

I'm an idiot.

A complete, undeniable, total arse.

Possibly I'm the most idiotic waste of flesh to bear the Watson name.

I still don't know _why_ exactly I did it. I worked so hard, for so long, because being a surgeon is prestigious, and there's good money in it, and I could holiday in the south of France with my beautiful trophy wife and stay at those lavish hotels they love talking about on the telly. That was the dream, wasn't it? Step one: do well enough at uni to get into a good med program. Step two: med school. Step three: residency. And now I'm supposed to be working towards step four (wealth, prestige, not being called "baby doc" all the time).

When the hell did step four become "enlist in the damn bloody Marines"?

I turn over in my little bed (this flat, this fucking flat; I don't think I could ever loathe another place more than I loathe this damned dreadful flat) and fall over on to my back, pressing my palms to my eyes.

This isn't me. I'm not the sort of bloke that chases a whim…am I? I don't know. Nothing makes sense anymore, not since Karen. Fit, beautiful, stupid Karen and her ridiculous notions. Apparently, being on call at Bart's three nights a week proves that I don't love her. I'm too busy; she gets lonely. Right. It's not like this whole "become a surgeon" thing is news to her. We've been together for six years, nearly! She was there at uni, and she was there while I was at med school. What's different now? When did she decide that I was too much work and not enough fun?

I sit up in bed, instantly aware that I'm not going to be getting any sleep tonight. Suddenly, London has become a prickly thing, all darkness and claustrophobic buildings pressing in at every side. I just…I have to get out of here. That's part of it, part of why I enlisted. (God, I still can't believe I did that. I really can't.) There are other, bigger reasons: patriotism (which Harry says is misguided, but the way she reeked of wine when she said it downplayed the validity of her opinion, I'd say); a sense of duty (because wasn't I supposed to feel like a hero, helping patients all day long? Instead I just feel tired. Tired, and gray, and impossibly alone); the urge to be part of something larger and more intense than I can imagine; the desire to know what it's like to be afraid and rise above it. I can't explain this to my mum (who is probably still hysterical) but I think Harry gets it, or at least she tries. I'm young, but I'm not a child. At some point I realized that being James Bond was never an option. I am never going to coolly dispatch criminals and bed supermodels. And I'm really, really unhappy about it. I haven't been in a proper fight since secondary school. I thought someone was going to mug me on the tube two nights ago (turns out he was just a bit of a drunk, probably too pissed to even consider stealing) and that slam of adrenaline…it was good. I felt alive. I felt really fucking alive.

So, tomorrow. Tomorrow, I ship off to basic. Tomorrow, I stop being doctor-in-training and start being just "Watson". Tomorrow, I'll be stripped clean, made anew.

God, I can't wait.


	12. In Which Sherlock Learns the Hard Way

**In Which Sherlock Learns the Hard Way**

_John:_

"Lie down, Sherlock."

Sherlock, his hair sweat-drenched and clinging in damp curls to his forehead, shakes his head vehemently and crosses his arms like a fussy child. "No!"

"For God's sake, Sherlock!" I close my eyes, take a breath. I don't know why it's so easy to be the ever-patient doctor with everyone else, and near impossible with Sherlock. I think it's because he knows just the proper way to annoy me and then commences to do so with undisguised glee. "You've got a fever of nearly thirty-nine degrees." My voice is calm, placating. "If you don't get some rest, it'll go higher and then you'll have to have a stay in hospital. You don't want that, do you?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "I'm not a child, John," he hisses, looking every bit of twelve years old. "Don't use that patronizing tone with me."

"Right," I grit, my teeth clenched, "because reasoning with you like an adult has been working so well for me."

"Just leave me alone!" he cries, hopping up from his bed again and bolting out into the sitting room. I follow him hurriedly, catching his wrist before he can slip down the stairs.

Pulling Sherlock to me, I growl, "It's not even five degrees out and you're in pyjamas and stocking-feet. If you go outside right now you'll catch your death. Go. Back. To. Bed."

"As soon as you let your guard down, I'll be gone. Don't think you can trap me here forever." Everything about his posture, his voice, the glow in his eyes…it all comes across as a challenge.

Stupidly, I take the bait. "Keep making threats like that," I say, and I find that I'm smiling, "and I'll happily restrain you."

"You wouldn't."

"I would, and I will." I tighten my fingers on his wrist like a promise. "Bottom to bedsheets, _now_."

He shakes his head, the movement so slight as to be almost imperceptible, and I make up my mind then and there. "Right," I say, bending at the knees and grasping him around the thighs. Sherlock's up and over my shoulder before he even thinks to fight back. (I don't delude myself into thinking I'd ever catch him off guard if he weren't sick as a dog, but I still allow myself a warm little stab of pride at having managed it all.)

"Put! Me! Down!" Each word is punctuated by a punch to my back, but I don't relent. It's all I can do to keep my grip on him; the damn fool won't stop twisting about and kicking, and_ God_ he's heavier than he looks. For someone who never eats, his weight on my shoulder (the bad one at that, but I wasn't thinking about that when I'd put him there) is solid and pressing. I fling him down on to his bed unceremoniously, and when he instantly tries to spring back up I kneel down on the bed beside him and press my palm to his chest, catching my breath as he struggles.

"You're weak as a kitten right now, Sherlock," I gasp out, a little breathless. "And you forget: I was a soldier. I can and will keep you in this bed until you're better. So why don't you do us both a favor and _lie still_, for Christ's sake?"

I know he's getting desperate when he goes still and croons: "I'll call my brother! He'll make your death look like an accident!"

"Oh, stop it," I smile, pulling the top-sheet up to his chin (and frowning as he immediately flings it off). "Now, then. Are you quite done? Because I'd like to fix some tea and get some medicine in you, but I can't very well leave you if you're going to hop out of the window or something."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock groans, as if the sight of a thirty-something year old man flailing about to avoid bedtime isn't the exact image of the word. "I would go to the roof. Jump over to the next building, use the fire escape to get down. You'd still be looking for me in the alley below my windowsill and I'd be two blocks away."

"Of course." I pat his knee, noting the rising color in his cheeks and the droop of his eyelids with mild concern. I want to take his temperature again, and I want to get him another blanket, but I think it's probably best to let him drift into sleep, so I wait.

Just as it seems like he's nodding off, his eyes jump open. "You threatened to restrain me!" His voice is quiet but accusatory.

I wipe his sweaty hair from his forehead with the back of my hand. "Yes."

"Did you mean it?"

"Yes," I smile.

He smiles, too, his eyes hazy but clearly pleased. "I could get out of any restraint you managed to assemble within a minute."

Laughing, I shake my head and tuck the sheet up under his chin again. "You really don't want to test that theory, Sherlock, not in the state you're in."

"No, you're right," he sighs, letting his eyes settle closed. "But when I'm…myself again. We should try that."

I'm glad Sherlock's eyes are closed so he can't see the look on my face. God, it's no wonder people talk about us. Shaking my head, I give his knee another little pat and walk to the door, stopping there to turn back and look at him. His chest is rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm, his lips lightly parted and his face shiny. I laugh a little at myself and the sudden wash of feeling that rushes through me. If he'd only let me, I'd go on trying to fix him for the rest of our lives.


	13. In Which John Hurts

**In Which John Hurts**

_John:_

I brush my lips down the line of his cheekbone. In my mind, we're already moving together in the dark, our bodies fitted tightly at the hips and my face pressed into Sherlock's warm, lush curls. I want him. I want him so badly that I ache with it.

Sherlock sighs- not a contented sigh, but a long-suffering one- and I stop myself short. "It's been nearly a month," I breathe into his ear, landing a soft kiss there before adding, "Don't you want it?" I can't believe that he'll actually say "no"; the idea of it, of him not needing this as badly as I do, is impossible to entertain.

But then he says it- "No," his voice so cool and distant that it stops my breath in my throat- and I step back. He's looking at me as if he expects me to break down, and I'm surprised to find he's nearly right: my hands are trembling and my throat is tight.

"I-" I pause, clear my throat. "I'm sorry, I was under the impression-"

When Sherlock laughs, there isn't a touch of humor in it. "If it surprises you to find that you've surmised our little situation incorrectly," he smiles, his eyes glittering like I haven't seen since Baskerville, "then you're even more stupid than I'd guessed. Bravo."

"Stop it, Sherlock." I step back, my jaw clenched and my throat unbearably dry. "You want your space, fine, I'll let you alone. But don't start-"

"Don't tell me what to start," he hisses, stepping right up to me, and if I didn't love him I would push him away from me and make it _hurt_…but I do, so I don't. Instead I just put my hands behind my back (they steady me, and they're less dangerous back there) and tilt my chin up so I can look into his eyes. This seems to amuse him, and there's a touch of laughter in his voice as he drawls, "I indulge your whims on occasion, John, yes- but only when it suits _me_." Sherlock huffs out a breath in an imitation of a laugh. "Frankly, your desperation is beginning to repulse me." He turns back to the window, his eyes following the rain that streaks down the panes in wide rivulets, and I have to step away from him, put my hands to my cheeks, look at anything else but the smug set of his jaw.

"You're not even human sometimes, I swear it." I whisper this to the carpet because I can't look at him, not right now, and if I speak any louder than this I'll be screaming the words at him and poor Mrs. Hudson will suddenly become overly privy to the strangest and worst-kept secret of my life.

"What did you expect, John?" I can feel Sherlock staring at me, deducing my every thought from the lines of my face, and I almost want to beg him to stop but I keep my mouth shut, pursed, and let him go on. "Did you think this would fix me? Oh, all Sherlock needed was a few good shags to turn him into a real boy," he sing-songs, and finally I get it.

I look up at him sharply, and he knows. I know he knows. "You're scared," I say softly. I expect his reaction, so I don't flinch when Sherlock suddenly throws one of Mrs. Hudson's favorite teacups at the wall. It shatters, of course it does, the dregs running down the wall slowly, and I don't even acknowledge it. My hands have gone behind my back again, and my chin has lifted. Because now that I understand it, I can deal with it: Sherlock loves me and he's scared to death.

"I don't," Sherlock spits. "I can see what you're thinking and you're wrong. It's flattering, really, this torch you carry for me, but you're wrong and-"

"Sherlock." I can't help it; I have to touch him. I set my hand so slowly, so carefully on his arm and try not to wince at the way he flinches away from me. God, he's practically gasping, and his eyes are going red, and all I want to do is hold him and make it better but he won't _let _me and it's so frustrating that I grit my teeth against it. "Bloody Christ, Sherlock," I swear as he turns away, pressing himself right up against the window and covering his face with his hands. "You're not in this alone, mate. I'm here. Let me help you."

"I don't need you." His voice is quiet but hard, a warning not to touch him again. I run my tongue over my lips, thinking as hard as I can. What can I do? I had a similar crisis, I suppose, when I realized I was in love with an unruly, asexual, _male _consulting detective, but I dealt with it okay. It was easier for me, though. But then, I've never tried to convince myself that I'm too damn proud to feel actual human emotions.

"Whatever you need from me," I reiterate, because I'm not sure what else to say and because I want him to know that I mean this, "I'll give it you. I promise you that, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere, not unless you want me to."

"God, would you listen to yourself?" He shoves off from the window and rounds on me again, his eyes wet and his nose pink. "You want to help me? Then kindly take your foolish homoerotic fantasies and push them on somebody else; I haven't the time or the interest to deal with them." Sherlock's hand comes up, solid but trembling, and plants itself into my chest, throwing me a little off-kilter as he stalks away. I can't decide what's more alarming: that I watch him go and it feels like my whole world is stomping away down the stairs, or that I'm honestly considering running after him because it's cold and he forgot his coat.

"Damn you, Sherlock," I mutter as the downstairs door slams shut. I sink down into my favorite chair, my breath shaky and my eyes stinging, and I hate him. I love him, God I love him, but I hate him, too. And it doesn't matter because no matter how I feel, love or hate, it _hurts_. I hurt. And I'm getting too old for it.


	14. In Which Sherlock Deals with Dying

**In Which Sherlock Deals with Dying**

_Molly:_

In my dream, Sherlock and I are in the lab, and he looks so sad. I know it's because he thinks he's going to die, but he doesn't realize how fiercely against that idea I am. "What do you need?" I ask him, because I'll give him anything. He looks at me with eyes that don't make any sense, eyes the color of the sky over the sea, and says, "You." I'm shaking, trembling, and I take a step towards him. "I'm yours, Sherlock," I whisper, and the distance between us closes like magic. His hands are so warm, so soft, so unexpectedly _good _on my hips, and I tilt my lips towards his-

I wake up before our mouths meet, sunlight streaming across my little bed and into my eyes. A small groan escapes me as I shift in the bed, suddenly restless. I don't know what to do with this ridiculous pent-up energy I've got, but it's making me nutters. I've got my eyes shut tight and my hand is snaking down my thigh (the very idea of this makes me blush, but I've got to do _something_) when I remember that Sherlock is in my living room and he never, ever sleeps. My eyes open and my hand flies away, guilty. Oh, hell.

I've showered (spent about ten minutes just standing under the water and trying to breathe) and dressed, and my hair is spun up in a towel when I walk into the living room. Sherlock's sitting cross-legged on the couch, my laptop (password protected, thanks heavens I'd changed the password to my cat's name) settled in the dip of his lap. From where I'm standing I can see the screen, and it makes all my nervous energy drain away into a dark, cold lump in my stomach. It's John's blog, and he's just refreshing it over and over, not even blinking. _Oh, Sherlock._

"I'll have tea, thank you," he says, not looking up from the screen. I swallow and nod, even though he can't see me, and slip into the kitchen. I can't get that image out of my head. Poor Sherlock, still in his pyjamas (too short for him, but they were all I kind find at the shop on my budget), staring at John's blog like that. I wonder- as I scoop up my favorite mug (for Sherlock) and the chipped one (for myself) and head back to the living room- just how long he'd been doing that.

I nearly drop the mugs when I realize that he's now neatly dressed in the one suit I managed to get for him (the one John picked out for him to be buried in, incidentally, which turns my stomach just a little). I guess it embarrasses me because his pyjamas are slumped in a small puddle right in the middle of the room, and he's still buttoning his cuffs. My kitchen doesn't have a door; if I'd just turned round, I'd have seen Sherlock in his pants! (Or less- I'm not yet convinced he actually _wears _pants, as I haven't seen any in the hamper. Not that I'm checking or anything, but, well I'd notice, wouldn't I?)

Clearing my throat, I set Sherlock's mug down and take a sip from my own. "Heading out?" I ask, and he slips down on the sofa, drawing my laptop back into his lap.

He's typing when he finally responds, "My brother is having his men come and fetch me. I've no doubt they'll be a loathsome lot, so you'll want to avoid them. Or at least smarten up." At this he gives me one of his patented looks, and I try not to wilt under it.

I settle down beside him, keeping a careful distance of course, and glance at the screen. John's blog in one window, Sherlock's email in another. He's paged back over to John's blog and he's hitting refresh again, his knees crossed and his foot bouncing.

"He's going to be okay, Sherlock," I say, even though I'm not really sure I believe it. There's a lot of talk about their relationship, of course there is, but whatever they are to each other I know they're very close. John is devastated, there's no other word for it. I've never seen anyone look so…empty. If I'm honest, I hate being around him these days. It's awful. How am I supposed to look him in the eyes and see all that grief and _know _I could fix it but still keep my mouth firmly shut? It's selfish, but I'm really glad he keeps turning down my offers for lunch.

Sherlock flicks his gaze at me, then returns it to the laptop. "Yes, I'm aware," he says, like he's bored of the topic. I don't believe it.

I put my hand over his- the one settled on his bouncing knee- and ask, gently, "Are you going to be okay?"

He's quiet for so long that I think he isn't going to answer me, but then he looks up (those impossible eyes) and smiles sadly. "Keep an eye on John. I'll be back when I can."

There's a loud knocking on the door, and both of us turn to look at it. "Go to your room, Molly," Sherlock says, and I'm so nervous I don't even think to giggle at the way it sounds. I just do as Sherlock asks and hope for the best.


	15. In Which Sherlock Visits His Own Grave

**In Which Sherlock Visits His Own Grave**

_Sherlock:_

The headstone is elegant, stately. It has an understated sort of beauty that bespeaks wealth and quiet power. It reeks of Mycroft. I picture him picking it out, his disgusting jowls held firm in somber mourning, and I can't hold back a sneer. Mycroft. If he weren't my brother, he'd be my greatest adversary. Even so…

I trail my finger over the cool, dark stone. Fleetingly I wonder if there's an accompanying coffin below the firm earth, and just as quickly I dismiss the question. I wasn't at my own funeral, whatever Lestrade has said in jest ("Probably attend your own wake just to see who's actually mourning you," that ridiculous accent), but I know that Mycroft would have arranged it carefully. I'm sure the funeral director is bemused by the empty, expensive coffin that lies under this patch of ground. I'm equally sure he's been paid handsomely for his quiet acceptance of the matter.

There are flowers, dead now, sitting at the base of the headstone. It's clear that the petunias are from Molly, the roses (near black in wilted death) from my brother, and the calla lilies from Mrs. Hudson- who is the only member of this sorry trio that actually believes me dead. There's also a wreath, hideous and garish, that has tipped over in its little base and lies helter-skelter. I suspect that it was presented as a gift "from the Yard" but was actually procured by Lestrade, and of his own solitary volition. Evidence of John's grief is conspicuously absent; however, I witnessed him moments ago speaking to the headstone and looking quite bereft, so I don't take offense.

I find I'm intensely curious about John's speech. What does one say to a dead man? The distance was too great for lip-reading, and the angle was improper for it at any rate. He had spoken softly; his voice didn't carry. What quiet words did he share with my empty coffin? I wish (belatedly, which makes it worthless) that I had bugged the gaudy little glass vase Molly had left there. But then, I hadn't expected anyone to divulge their secrets to my supposed corpse.

Now, that's a treat; I smile ruefully. Even in the midst of my tragic death, John manages to surprise me. There aren't many people who can claim such ability, even in the best of times. There is a small stab of something (grief? regret? I'm not one for labeling emotions so much as dismissing them immediately) in my chest as I consider the possible length of my absence. I will miss him. There is no reluctance on my part to admit this; like London, my favorite aubergine-coloured shirt, or the skull that sits in my now-empty flat on Baker Street, John is a comfort to me. I'm fond of him, perhaps even exceedingly so. The only words I regret from my farewell speech are the words "Goodbye, John".

My phone beeps. Mycroft, I know, even without checking. Who else would text a dead man? My time is up. My good-byes to myself must be cut short. Goodbye, handsome headstone. Goodbye, hollow earth. Goodbye, wilting flowers and revolting wreath.

Goodbye, John.


	16. In Which Lestrade Goes on Holiday

**In Which Lestrade Goes on Holiday**

_Mycroft:_

"Silver Fox now in possession," intones my new assistant, Elisabetta, in her friendly, banal voice. Her eyes are trained on the small screen of her Blackberry. "C-19-A en route to drop-off point."

"Excellent." I lean back in my seat, not quite smiling. "Ring him." I hold out my hand as she dials, and lift it to my ear as it rings.

"You know, I expected one of you Holmes boys to ruin my holiday," Lestrade grumbles, "but I thought I'd at least make it out of the airport first."

"Ah, Detective Inspector." My voice is sickly sweet. "I trust your flight was comfortable?"

"Nothing a little scotch can't fix."

The edges of my saccharine smile curve up into something slight more authentic. "How delightful. And I see you found my driver."

"Kind of hard to miss," Lestrade says pointedly, drawing a chuckle from me. It wasn't as though I'd never had the man kidnapped before, after all.

"Superb. Consider him yours for the duration of your stay, of course. And I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty of booking you some more…_suitable _accommodations. You'll find instructions for dinner reservations on the desk in your suite, which you're free to ignore, of course, although I wouldn't; you're unlikely to find better cuisine elsewhere. In the wardrobe you'll find several suits, all to your size specifications, and in the top drawer of the nightstand I've had an assistant place a mobile with numbers for the driver and for one of my best personal assistants, who I hope you'll find satisfactory. Please, do feel free to call on them for any need you might have during your holiday."

There is a stretch of silence which makes my smile turn wholly genuine before Lestrade says, with something approaching trepidation, "Thanks? Might I ask what I've done to deserve…well, all of that?"

Tapping my fingers on the plush leather seat of my personal car, I suddenly frown. "There are very few people, Detective Inspector, on whom my brother can rely. The depths of my gratitude are boundless."

"Right." His suspicion pleases me endlessly. "I imagine there's a little more to it, of course."

"Sherlock underestimates your intuition, I'm afraid," I sigh. "Yes, there is something more. I do hope you understand that my brother cannot be left unattended for long."

"I'm only gone for-"

"Please, Lestrade, if I may call you that. I do not expect you to stay in his vicinity at all times. However," I take a deep breath, drum my fingers on the leather once more, "should he find himself in danger, or should he leave London unexpectedly, I would be remiss not to draw you away from your trip prematurely, would I not?"

"I see." Lestrade clears his throat. "And the, eh, grand gesture? I suppose that's meant to placate me, then?"

"I only hope you get the most out of however much holiday you've been afforded," I drawl diplomatically.

Lestrade laughs, and I can envision him shaking his head as he says, "Well. So it goes. This hotel got a pool?"

"Three of them," I answer. I hang up, pass the phone back to Elisabetta, and sigh. "Have them text me his whereabouts every quarter hour."

"Yes, sir." Elisbetta's eyes crinkle at the corners, and she says with something like a smirk gracing her pretty face, "Silver Fox, sir?"

I don't quite smile at that, though my left eyebrow quirks up quite tellingly.


	17. In Which Lestrade Apologizes

**In Which Lestrade Apologizes (Needlessly)**

_Lestrade:_

The pub is warm, cozy even. Ma used to say there's nothing warmer than a mother's heart or a man's favorite pub. Hell, that saying sums up my childhood more neatly than all the baby pictures in our scrubby little Brixton row-house combined.

Ah, there's the man. "John!" I cry, standing up and clapping his shoulder. John looks well, better than he did at any rate. But then again, last time I'd seen him we'd both hit the 48-hour mark of pretending we could run with the likes of Sherlock Holmes. No food, no sleep, don't know how the man does it myself, but me and John- we're not cut from that cloth. Well, the sleep, I guess. Bloody hell, I don't remember the last time I got a full night's sleep. But a man's got to have a warm meal every night, and I won't budge on that one. "Left your better half at home?" I tease, because it's so easy to make John go pink.

"Better half?" John says, taking a seat, and I follow suit. "And here I thought we were nearly friends, Lestrade."

"Ah, hell, let me fix it, then: first rounds on me." I gesture to the barmaid (pretty lass, fit little arse in a tight pair of jeans) and order for the both of us, ignoring John's grimace (we'll not be sipping pints tonight, not when I'm looking at the strong possibility of being able to sleep off a hangover, oh no) and slapping a tenner on the bar. "Sherlock uncovered anything new on the-?"

John raises his hands and purses his lips. "I'm not talking work tonight, not a chance. So, your choice: birds, or footy."

Easy decision; I've not had a decent shag in so long I've forgotten what the point of that dangly bit between my legs even _is_. "You favouring Liverpool tomorrow?"

x

Five whiskeys and eight pints apiece later, and John and I are very nearly pissed. Well, John more-so than me, but the man's so small and it doesn't help that I only ever drop into bed with the aid of a nightcap. I've got a better tolerance, I guess. No gains for me there; just means I've got to spend more to get the same place. I reckon I've thrown half my paycheck at that little serving wench (and my mobile number, too, though I don't think she pocketed it so much as _binned it right in front of me_ as memory serves, but then again I'm bleary-eyed and old and no, memory does not serve, generally speaking).

We're near enough Baker Street that I offer to walk the man home. He seems appreciative, if maybe a little flirtatious (and the last thing I need is damned bloody Sherlock getting all stroppy with me over his boyfriend's mooning), and I'm feeling pretty good, so I just go on and say it: "I guess you and Sherlock have probably already talked about, y'know, his past and whatnot."

"Not much, no," John says, leaning on me a bit.

That's something of a surprise, but still… "Well, I reckon he's at least told you about, y'know, the thing. With us. I'm glad you took it okay, anyway. You're an alright bloke, John, and just what Sherlock needs."

John's quiet for a moment, and then he stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk and stares at me, his eyebrows raised. "Wait. Wait a second. Thing with…did you and Sherlock…no. _No_. Really? No."

Aw, shit. "No! No, nothing like that," I backpedal, my hands spread in front of me. "I only meant…well, he must've told you. About. The drugs, and all that."

"Oh." John laughs, rubs a hand down his face. "Christ. No, he's not said much, but I've figured out bits and pieces here and there. God, I honestly thought you were implying…"

"Well, he only made a pass at me the one time, is all," I say, which immediately feels wrong. John's looking at me wide-eyed (and jealous? I can't tell) so I add, with a bit of haste, "But he was completely off it! No harm meant, I'm sure. I told him straight, and he never tried anything like _that_ again." Because John's still staring at me blankly, I go on a bit desperately, "Honestly, he was so high he probably didn't even realize what he was up to. Honest. Now he's cleaned up, I figure he's put it out of his mind."

"Sherlock came on to you?" John looks so honestly astonished that I wonder if maybe I've got this whole thing pegged the wrong way.

"Well, yeah," I say slowly, "only I figured he'd told you as much, saying as you two are…" I clear my throat, make a hand gesture I'm probably going to regret in the morning.

Poor John looks fit to choke. "Good God!" I can't tell if the man's going to laugh or cry. "Holy…Lestrade, no, sodding hell, no, we're not-"

"Oh, God," I groan, and now I'm really laughing, tears coming from my eyes. "I thought…hell, the whole damn division thought…"

"Why does _everyone_ assume Sherlock and I are shagging?" John's laughing too, and nearly doubled over with it. "Christ above. I can't believe…" He stands up straight, obviously trying to get his breathing under control, and wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. "Unbelievable."

"Apologies, mate," I mutter, trying not to start up laughing again. "Best leave the deductions to the ruddy consulting detectives, eh?"

"Yes," John grins, starting off towards he and Sherlock's flat again, "let's."


	18. In Which There is a Row at Baskerville

**In Which There is a Row at Baskerville**

_John:_

"You didn't correct them."

"Mm?" I give the bed (_my _bed, Sherlock can take the one near the jittery A/C unit, not like he's going to sleep anyway) another bounce with my hand and glance up at the bathroom doorway. Sherlock's in there, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow and a bit of floss twined around his fingers.

"You didn't correct them," he says again, attacking his mouth with the floss. In a relenting moment, he adds, "The innkeepers."

Oh, God. "Sherlock-"

"You usually do," he says, turning to me and putting his hands on his hips. He's looking at me as though I've tampered with one of his experiments, like I've somehow skewed some of his data. God knows, I probably have. Grimacing, Sherlock goes on, "Whenever someone has implied a romantic link between us in the past, you've corrected them. So, what's different? The innkeepers are gay themselves; perhaps you don't wish to offend. Or," he runs his thumb along his bottom lip, looking absently at the plush burgundy rug beneath my feet, "it has something to do with The Woman." Suddenly, sharply, Sherlock looks up at me and meets my eyes, his bright and curious. "That comment about my cheekbones. Are we a couple, John?"

I know I'm spluttering, but I can't help it. When I finally manage actual words, they come out in a near jumble, "What? No, God, I, what, I don't, oh, Sherlock, I-"

"Just as well," Sherlock says, turning back to the mirror and inspecting his teeth with careful scrutiny. "The beds don't push together and I don't plan on sleeping tonight, anyway."

All I can do is blink at him for a moment before pulling out my mobile and texting Henry. On with the case; I can't and won't spare another thought towards whatever the hell is careening through Sherlock's head.

x

This afternoon he seemed to think we were lovers; now we aren't even friends. I really wish I could have had a go at that therapist. God knows I need it.

x

Night two at Dartmoor, and at least the bloody case is solved now. That was a weird one, and I'd love to give it a proper write-up on my blog. I know full well I can't, of course, because of the military involvement. Doesn't mean I don't want to.

"Mycroft will kill you," Sherlock says blandly, not even looking up from his book. He's draped over the second bed (the rickety air unit muffled by his enormous greatcoat), with his legs crossed at the ankles and his toes tapping.

I don't ask how he knew what I was thinking. Things are still…a little awkward. There was the drug, for one thing. And Sherlock's reaction to it. (My reaction to it was less aggravated, but I'm accustomed to fear. One of the various side effects of war, I suppose.) The mess with Henry (poor kid). The sorry affair with the dog. My nerves are still clanging around a little bit, and I can still hear Sherlock's voice- _I don't have friends_- echoing in my head (along with its rejoinder: _only one_).

"John."

I look up at Sherlock. He's set his book down over his chest and he's giving me that same look he gave me this morning, that hangdog look that settles so easily over his features. It would be better if I could tell myself he was doing his mollify-the-normal-person routine, but there's something so genuine about it (and the way he complimented me, parroting back the various compliments I've given him as though they're the only ones he knows) that I can't help but be taken by it. "Sherlock?"

"Are we a couple?"

I don't splutter this time. Sincerely, I say, "I don't know, Sherlock," and shrug. Because I don't. I don't know what we are anymore. That row we had last night…why did it feel like my whole world stopped making sense as soon as Sherlock failed to claim me as a friend? I came to the realization last night that maybe I'd invested too much in Sherlock, too quickly. My world has narrowed so much. I used to be a student, a doctor, a soldier, a brother, a friend, a lover. Now, I'm just Sherlock's. Sherlock's colleague. Sherlock's assistant. Sherlock's first-aid medic; Sherlock's medical consultant. Sherlock's sounding board. Sherlock's walking, talking skull.

Sherlock's only friend.

Without him, I'm just an invalid awash in a world of gray. "I don't know," I say again. Sherlock seems to consider this for a moment, before nodding once and picking up his book again. It's much later (I'm nearly asleep, right in the place where thoughts have started to wander into dreams) when he says, "I don't mind."

"Hmm?" I can't even open my eyes, I'm so tired. That mess with the hound. Henry's screams. God, I'm tired.

"I don't mind if we are," Sherlock insists, his tone suggesting that I should be following.

Sighing, I mumble, "Don't mind if we are _what_, Sherlock?"

There's another very long pause, and I find myself drifting very rapidly into sleep. Henry's therapist is on a date with a glowing rabbit, and I keep trying to butt in because I'm bored and I want the challenge. The girl's okay, but I'm mostly interested because of Sherlock…

"If we're a couple," I hear him say, somewhere on the edge of consciousness, "I don't mind."

"You and the rabbit?" I'm talking through a fog, the moor curled venomously around me. Sherlock's there, his hand in mine, and he sighs.

"Never mind. Go to sleep," he says, rolling his eyes. But I already am.


	19. In Which John and Sherlock Eat Chinese

**In Which John and Sherlock Eat Chinese**

_Sherlock:_

We're at my favorite Chinese, the one on Baker Street (roughly 12 percent of the reason I chose to rent from Mrs. Hudson in the first place), and John keeps looking up at me and smiling. Nobody looks at me like that, like we share a secret and there's pleasure to be had in the sharing.

John: my new flatmate. I've just had the pleasure of allowing him to take a life on my behalf without legal repercussion. Of course, as John says, the person he killed "wasn't a very good man", but I still find it incredibly intriguing. How many lives has John taken that he can happily munch on shrimp dumplings and fried rice as a body grows cold in the morgue at his hands? Ordinary people tend to have qualms about that sort of thing, in my experience. His nonchalance, in contrast, is fascinating. It reminds me in some small way of myself.

"John Watson," I say, leaning back. I've eaten three and three-quarters dumplings and a small pile of white rice, which I find sufficient, but there's something very satisfying about watching John eat. "Invalided home from the war, but still in camouflage…and still fighting."

Around his food, he asks, "What do you mean? About the camo?"

"The oatmeal-coloured jumper." I've leaned forward again, completely engaged in my deduction. "Cheap jeans, dull shoes, unpretentious black coat. It's all so _unassuming_. Even your stature, your haircut, the tidiness of your fingernails…everything about you says 'forget me, let me fade into the background'. Camouflage. And it's _good _camouflage, at that." I'm genuinely smiling when I say, "Even I was nearly taken in by it."

And there it is again: the wonder and approval in his eyes, the authentic crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. Wiping his mouth, John says, "I can't say it was as calculated as all that-"

"No, of course not," I agree. "Soldier's habit. You want to blend in, you want to be able to move unseen. There's a wide gap between being threatening and being dangerous. You're not threatening in the least." I put my palms together and smile against my index fingers. "But you _are_ capable of being dangerous."

Amazing. The man actually looks flattered. He smiles down at his food and punctures the last dumpling with a satisfied sigh, bringing it to his mouth before pausing and saying, "Thank you, Sherlock. For, well…all of this." Chewing contentedly, he adds, "I'm starting to feel like myself again, believe it or not."

I give a slight nod and pluck one of the fortune cookies from the table. John follows suit, unwrapping his quickly and snapping it open. Pulling out the little strip of paper (cheap, machine cut, and actually from China- unlike the cookie itself, which was baked and packaged here in London) he reads aloud: "There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before." Beaming at me, John chuckles, "Not bloody likely!"

Smiling in turn, I crack mine open as well. Usually I simply toss the slip out (I understand they serve some sentimental purpose; however, I am highly dubious of mass-produced advice handed out by after-dinner treats) but John is looking at me expectantly, so instead I read, "You will meet an interesting stranger." I look up at John and he shakes his head, fighting a smile, as I quirk an eyebrow and pocket the slip. An interesting stranger, indeed.


	20. In Which Sherlock Comes Home

**In Which Sherlock Comes Home**

_John:_

"…Well, Charise has tickets to the ballet, but I'd almost rather go to the cinema, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm." I stomp up the steps to mine and Mary's little flat, Mary prattling away behind me. I unlock the door with a yawn and shed my coat, hanging it on the hook before turning towards the kitchen (tea, my mistress, beckons). I almost don't catch sight of the lean figure leaning against the armrest of our sofa. Almost.

"John?" Mary's still fiddling with the lock on the door, which sticks sometimes. "Haven't you been listening? I asked you a ques-" Finally, finally, she turns around and falls silent, her eyes going wide. "Who…?"

My heart seems to have stopped.

It's him. Sherlock Holmes, his collar turned up against his haughty face. Ankles crossed, bottom barely touching the armrest, fingers drumming steadily on his thigh. It isn't possible, but there it is.

"Sherlock?" My knees buckle.

Mary cries "Oh!" and steps forward, but Sherlock is much faster- he's at my side almost instantly, steadying me with his arms around my waist. His eyes are brilliant with colour.

I grip his arm. "You're…"

"Yes." That voice. I never thought I'd hear that voice again.

Clearing my throat, I try to display some modicum of stability (even though nothing makes sense anymore, and the ground keeps tipping beneath my feet) as I gather myself up on trembling legs and straighten my jumper (Sherlock must hate it, because I know how he feels about orange and cable knit) with fingers that are shaking too hard to be of much use.

"I've scared you." There's a touch of nervousness in his voice, and something more, something deeper. Something that hurts in its authenticity. "That wasn't my intention. Shall I go?"

"No!" I say quickly, grabbing Sherlock's arm again. The warmth of him- the realness, the proof that Sherlock was not dead after all but is here, in my sitting room, with his heart still pumping warm blood through his veins- is almost enough to knock my legs out from under me again.

Mary's voice reaches me slowly, as though I'm underwater. "John?" She sounds so quiet, so far away. I can't drag my eyes from Sherlock's. "Is that…? But I thought…"

"Mary, yes?" Sherlock's looked away from me and is giving Mary a once-over, his nose scrunched in distaste (and I have to stop myself laughing because isn't that just like Sherlock to dislike the girl I'm seeing?) before he introduces himself: "Sherlock Holmes." He doesn't take Mary's extended hand but instead looks back at me, those grey-green eyes intense and plaintive. "I need to speak to you," he whispers and then, more loudly, adds, "Alone."

x

We stand together on the stoop of my building for a long time, Sherlock explaining everything in a slow, hushed voice. It's so uncharacteristic, this gentleness, that I have to touch his hand several times just to prove to myself that this is reality and not some product of my starved imagination.

Sherlock's smoking again, I've noticed, and as he lights his second cigarette a swell of emotion hits me so forcefully that I sink down on to one of the steps and bury my face in my folded arms. I can't help it, which is ridiculous. I'm forty-three years old. I'm a doctor, and a veteran. But here I am, sobbing into my arms like a child.

"John?" I feel him fall into place beside me. I think he was probably in mid-sentence, but I can't be sure. I haven't really heard a word he's said, if I'm honest; I've just been listening to his voice (Sherlock's voice, Sherlock speaking, Sherlock alive and breathing and smoking a cigarette on my stoop). Clearing my throat, I brush the tears from my face and look up at him, at those wild eyes and that mess of curls, and before I know it I'm cupping my hand around his face.

"Sherlock." His name in my throat hurts, makes me hoarse. "How are you alive?"

"I was just explaining that," he says, but he's smiling a little. He puts his hand over mine and mumbles, "I _am _alive."

I give him a tearful laugh and pull him to me, not caring if it makes him uncomfortable or not…but it still gives me an awful, aching stab of pleasure when he puts his arms around me and breathes into my neck, letting me hold him, not trying to fight me off. "Sherlock," I say again, because I'm still expecting him to disappear. A sudden thought hits me and I groan, "Oh, God, _Mary_!"

"The woman upstairs, yes. She's peeked down at us eight times now," Sherlock frowns.

My heart is breaking all over again. "Mary!" I say, grabbing Sherlock's shoulders. "Mary! I never told her…" I don't say "about us", but I don't need to. Sherlock suddenly understands, and he twists to peek up at our sitting room window.

"I should think it's rather obvious, now," he shrugs, turning back to me. In a low voice, he murmurs, "You haven't kissed me yet. Does that mean I'm not forgiven?"

I don't even know how to answer that. My wife is upstairs, bowing our blinds and fretting, no doubt, over my seemingly fragile state…and the love of my life is sitting beside me, wondering why I haven't kissed him yet. My Sherlock.

"No, no, Sherlock," I whisper, running my finger along the lines of his palm. "But things are a bit complicated now. More than a bit, really. We'll have to figure them out as we go."

"Three years is a long time," Sherlock says seriously, "so maybe I need to remind you: I am incredibly good at problem solving." He smiles at me, then, and that's it; we're laughing like old times, leaning against each other. Warm, solid, real; I still can't believe this is _Sherlock_ sitting beside me, _Sherlock's _hand twining its way around my own.

My voice is almost too soft for even me to hear it as I mumble, "I missed you so much it felt like I couldn't _breathe_ sometimes."

Sherlock's voice is equally soft: "I know. I know, John."

"Don't ever leave me again." My hand tightens on his.

It's more of a relief than I ever could have imagined when he answers, his voice rough, "I won't." And that's enough. That's all I ever needed to hear.


	21. In Which John Disgusts Sherlock

**In Which John Disgusts Sherlock**

_John:_

"Disgusting."

I look up from the clothes I'd been ironing (mostly Sherlock's, and how he roped me into doing _that_ I'll never know) and try to fight back a blush. I'm not in the habit of singing (loudly, and to Whitney Houston) and wiggling my bum around when I'm aware that Sherlock is home. His current reaction- scrunched nose, pouted lips, narrow eyes, hair even wilder and messier than usual- is a good indicator of why. "Hullo, Sherlock," I say pleasantly, turning back to the ironing. "Don't make such a fuss; I hadn't even tried for the high notes yet."

"What? Oh, don't be imbecilic; I wasn't talking about your singing, dreadful though it is." Sherlock paces over and leans against the ironing board, knocking a stack of freshly-ironed clothes to the floor.

I take a deep breath, shut my eyes for a moment. When I open them again, I'm wearing a patient smile. "What's disgusting then, Sherlock? The ironing? Pedestrian as it may be, _someone_ has to keep you in crisp shirts."

Sherlock scowls. "I meant _this_. Your…joviality. We haven't had a case in three days and you're walking around as if the world is made of sunshine and kittens. It's ridiculous." He folds his arms and huffs a sigh. "You've cleaned my bedroom, against my will. Scrubbed the tile in the shower despite the fact that I was clearly studying the mold culture therein. Now you've washed, dried, and ironed my clothes, which means I won't be able to saddle Mycroft with the laundry bill. Explain yourself."

"I've cleaned the rest of the flat, too, you self-centered prat," I say pleasantly, scooping up the clothes he'd knocked to the floor and setting them back in the pile to be ironed again. "It's spring! April showers and whatnot. This flat needed a good scrubbing."

"No one enjoys performing menial tasks just for the sake of doing them," Sherlock grits, tapping his foot. He's bored, and that's never a good thing. I give him thirty seconds or less before he starts deducing me to death just for the exercise. "Although I suppose the Army conditioned you into such behaviors, at some point." Leaning up, he eyes me warily. "Why are you so pleased with yourself, hmm? Done something worthwhile, have you?"

"Sherlock," I sigh, ironing a nice, tight crease into the leg of one of Sherlock's trousers, "can't a man just be satisfied with his life?"

Whatever noise comes out of Sherlock, it's clearly derisive. "What, without a case on? Don't be base."

I laugh, and he watches me work in something like petulant silence for several moments. Once the task is done, I put the kettle on and settle down at the kitchen table with a contented sigh.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock runs both of his hands through his hair and begins pacing around the kitchen, mumbling under his breath. I make out the words "hateful" and "cheery bastard" before he rounds on me, his pale eyes slitted. "You ate toast this morning, but with marmalade instead of strawberry jam. You prefer the jam, so that should have given you a measure of discontent." He gestures to my leg. "The humidity is affecting your _actual _injury, only slightly, but enough that it should bother you." Leaning back against the table, his brow furrowed, Sherlock goes on, "Two days ago you worked an extra shift at the surgery. You should have been exhausted and moody but instead you came home smiling and smelling of…_oh_." The crinkle of his nose is almost delicate. "How very…"

"That's enough, Sherlock," I say, still mild and smiling, as I pour us both a cuppa. "Well done, you've figured it out."

"At the surgery, John?" Sherlock takes his cup and blows on it carefully, his features still contorted with disgust. "How unhygienic of you both."

"Oh, come off it. We did it in the loo, not the patient's rooms or the offices."

"That's worse!" Sherlock sets his cup down and leans forward, clearly bracing for a lecture. "Are you aware of how filthy the average lavatory is? I can tell you, just from the studies I've conducted personally on the men's room in the Baker Street tube station, that you've opened yourself to contamination from no less than the likes of E-Coli, Staphylococcus Aureus, Streptococcus, Campylobacter-"

"Yes, thank you Sherlock." I try not to grimace as I sip my tea. "I'll remind you that I _am_ a doctor."

Sherlock scoffs and takes a big swig from his cup. "At least you washed your hands afterwards."

"How-"

"Soap scum and routine, John, don't ask obvious questions."

Smiling, I bring my teacup to my lips and pause, setting it back down again. "It took you two whole days to realize I'd had sex? I thought banker boy from your uni days said that was one of your old tricks, calling someone on having had a shag."

He scowls at his cup for a moment and takes another long sip, leaving only draughts behind when he sets it down. Suddenly, his expression brightens and he sits up, looking at me with interest. "How was it?"

I very carefully _don't_ choke on my tea. "What, you mean-? Oh. Um. It was fine. Good, actually." I clear my throat, tug at my collar. "Yes. Very nice." I don't know why this is so awkward (I've discussed this kind of thing with mates before, but it's usually not over tea so much as pints, and they aren't normally looking at me like I'm a specimen in a petri dish).

"Fine. Good. Nice. Not exactly high praise for the first shag since your return from Afghanistan." Calculated casualness. _Sherlock, what are you playing at?_

"Thought I'd spare you the gritty details," I smile and by God, I think his ears are going pink. I don't even contemplate how he knows that Sarah was the first girl I'd pulled in years.

"Hmm," he hums, considering something. At once he leaps up and grabs his coat.

"Something to do with a case?" I ask, half-standing.

Sherlock fixes me with a distant look, like he's forgotten I exist. "Mm? No." He loops his scarf around his neck and drones, "Have Mrs. Hudson fix something cold. I don't think I'll be back until late." And that's that; the madmen dashes down the stairs, and I'm left with two empty teacups and the distinct feeling that I've missed something.


	22. In Which John Says No

**In Which John Says No**

_Sherlock:_

I've been kissing John (his mouth tastes of tea and biscuits, mainly, with a faint hint of mouthwash) for less than five seconds, and already I can sense something is terribly amiss. It's been three years, eight months, two weeks, five days, twelve hours, and nineteen minutes since our last kiss, but I don't blame the strange rigidity of John's spine on me being out of practice (although I am; the idea of kissing anyone who is _not _John is distinctly repugnant). Thus it is not exactly surprising when John slips his hands between us and presses them into my chest, pushing me a step backwards. Not a surprise, no, but still rather unwelcome.

He's gasping, and shuddering, and everything about this is just wrong. I've come home, haven't I? And he claims to have forgiven me (his body language suggests this claim to be true, so I have no reason to doubt the validity of it; likewise, John never lies to me unless the lie is of little consequence, like pretending he hasn't eaten the last tart despite the crumbs on his sleeve and the lemon paste at the corner of his lips). So why this odd reaction? I'm intrigued…and a touch annoyed. I don't often allow myself to get caught adrift in a tide of emotion, but I won't deny there are certain needs of mine that have gone unfulfilled in my absence from London. (Needs that didn't exist before John, granted, but needs nonetheless.) Arranging my features into something I imagine might look cautious, I hazard, "John?"

"You can't," John pants, and I raise my eyebrow at him as he shakes his head, still breathless and pink in the face. (I try to pretend that I don't enjoy him when he's breathless and pink but it's nearly impossible. Still, these are not exactly the circumstances under which I imagined him thus.) Putting his hand up between us (defensive, a stop sign in human form), he shakes his head again and groans, "You can't just…"

He's angry, clearly, but not with me. He's angry with himself. Why? There's something shameful in the twist of his mouth. Why be ashamed, John Watson? It's not as though we've never done this before. So what has changed?

Ah.

"Mary?" I ask, and he looks up at me sharply before bowing his head.

Picking at a loose thread on his jumper, John whispers, "You can't just…_barge _back into my life and expect things to be the same." He brings his gaze up to mine; have I ever seen his eyes so dark, so conflicted? "They aren't, Sherlock. This…this can't happen."

"You are mine," I say, because he is. He's as much mine as this flat, as much mine as the shirts in my wardrobe and the microscope in the kitchen. He belongs to me. I cannot imagine any scenario in which this would not be true. But there is John, shaking his head again and drawing in rough, trembling breaths.

"You _died_, Sherlock," he says softly. "If I had known you were coming back…" A sigh: remorse, wistfulness, longing. He wants me still; I don't understand his hesitance. "But I didn't. I didn't know. So…I moved on."

I know other people have a hard time seeing things clearly sometimes, but this isn't exactly a difficult puzzle. I found the solution before I even realized there was a problem. "Cut loose the understudy," I drawl, already bored with this. "The star has recovered." Poetic, I think. I'm in something of a poetic mood. Hmph. John's glaring at me; perhaps he prefers a more direct approach. "Fine, shall I spell it out for you? You are mine. I am yours. There is no room for a third party in this endeavor, I think we'll both agree. If it is the extramarital physicality that bothers you, I'll gladly wait until you've cleared up the muck. Well, I say 'gladly'."

Oh. That expression is not much better. "If you think I can really be so callous," John hisses, his eyes narrowed, "then you don't know me very well, Sherlock. I'm not leaving Mary."

"Not leaving-?" I do hate repetition, but the words bear repeating. "But…_oh_. Obligation? Really? How incredibly…" I search for a word that doesn't sound like an insult (not that I would expend that effort on anyone else, but this is _John_ and he's already upset), settle on: "Honourable."

"Only you could make 'honourable' sound like you're taking the piss," John spits, and there we go: I've cocked it up. Well, I tried. "You, and your brother."

I bristle at the comparison. "Are we to spend the evening sparring, then? Because I'd rather hoped for sex, or at least a bit of Chinese and a foot-rub." I'd settle for crap telly and a cuppa, but I won't tell John that. Best to start the bidding high and let him work me down, if he must.

"Sherlock!" Exasperation, but he can't hide that small hint of amusement in his voice from me. Nor can he hide the undercurrent of wanting, and the even paler shadow of sadness. I can see it quite clearly, all of a sudden: I've broken his heart. It's not just obligation to Mary that keeps him from falling into my bed- he doesn't trust me not to hurt him again. John can tell, like no one else can, what I'm thinking. He steps forward, pain and concern written so clearly on his face that the sight of it leaves a physical ache in my guts, like I'm saying good-bye to him all over again. His voice, so soft, is the final blow: "Sherlock?"

I discover I'm no longer standing; I've settled down on the sofa, my hands wringing in my lap of their own volition. John is kneeling in front of me, his face pale and his eyes damp. "Sherlock. Talk to me. Please."

"You're leaving me," I say (in someone else's voice, a child's voice). John, my John, who has always been so loyal and so good, John who is my moral compass and my heart and my only friend…is giving me up. I don't have to tell him that it feels like betrayal: he can hear it in my voice.

Just like I can hear the bitterness in his when he responds, quietly but not unkindly, "You left me first."

My throat feels raw and uncomfortable; my eyes are stinging, and I brush at them impatiently. "Go home, John," I say, my voice unsteady.

"Sherlock-" he starts, but I shake my head and say, "Go home," and after a long, silent moment in which neither of us move or breathe or dare to meet each other's eyes, he nods- once, a soldier's nod, _I'm doing this because I must_- and stands, touching my knee briefly before sliding on his coat and trudging down the stairs. I hear him pause at the bottom, one foot still poised on the last step…and then he leaves, the door creaking shut behind him.

He leaves, and I lie back against the sofa, squeezing my eyes closed. London, outside my window, is a menagerie of noise and violence. I don't care about any of it. I don't find it hateful; I don't find it fascinating.

I find it empty.

The world is suddenly lacking. _I_ am suddenly lacking. Three years is a long time, I've discovered. A lifetime is a far more agonizing fate.


	23. In Which John Dies

**In Which John Dies**

_Sherlock:_

My lips trail down from to point of John's jaw, just below his ear, to the bow of his clavicles. His skin is coarse (I taste: sweat, aftershave, and something entirely John) but delightful beneath my searching mouth, and I'm filled with something intense and irrational, the urge to pull John so close to me that he can never separate, instead melding into me in a process as tidy and natural as cell osmosis. I want to give John so many things; I want to give him music, wealth, comfort, excitement. I want to give him…

"_La petite mort_," I murmur suddenly, looking up at him. John's eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, his pupils wide and encircled by the thinnest sliver of sapphire blue.

"German and Pashto," John laughs. His laugh is husky, sweet. It sends a little thrill down my spine in a way that nothing but cocaine and corpses have done before. "I'm lost on French, I told you. The Pashto won't do much for me, and honestly German dirty talk kind of freaks me out a bit. So let's maybe stick to English?"

I don't fault him for not understanding. It annoys me, typically, when people fail to _see_…but John sees so much more than everyone else that I allow him his (admittedly frequent) failings. With a small sigh, I deign to make myself a bit clearer by dragging my tongue down the length of his chest. "Not dirty talk, John," I whisper a bit breathlessly, planting a kiss just under his bellybutton. I can't keep the edge of excitement from my voice as I rush, "I just realised: I want to kill you."

John stiffens, propping himself up on his elbows. His face, so expressive and open, is showing clear signs of confusion and not a little distress. Ah, I've slipped up. Done something 'Not Good'. Maybe I can assuage his fears? I slide my hand down under the waistband of his preposterously cheap and frankly hideous pyjama bottoms, tangling my fingers in the course hair there, and he huffs out a breath before flashing me a lopsided grin and falling back against the bed. "I know you well enough to know you'd never be caught," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice even if I can't see it, "but I do think you'd feel a touch of regret, at the very least. Could be flattering myself, but…"

"If I ever really killed you," I say, a little startled at the depth of my voice, "I'd want you to kill me, too. Right at the same moment." I nuzzle my cheek against his groin, enjoying the heat of him and the obvious want, before adding, softly, "But that's not what I meant."

"Jesus." His breathing is accelerated, shallow. I kiss his hip bones as I tug down his pyjamas and he sighs, "You're absolutely barking." Any sting those words might have had (and from anyone else, they would never be so casually tolerated) is eased by the firm, steady fingers that wind their way into my hair, both gentle and eager in their grip. I know he thinks I'm mad (and perhaps I _am_ mad; certainly my childhood psychologists seemed to lean towards that line of reasoning) but I know he relishes my madness, basks in it like no one else has ever done. The thought of that, of John Watson drawn to insanity like a moth to flame, makes me grin, and as a reward I drop one careful kiss on his frenulum as I stroke him slowly, softly, my grip not yet firm enough to be anything more than a tease.

"You love my madness," I say, aware that I'm grinning foolishly and equally aware that, at the moment, I don't mind.

John's leaned up again (he loves to watch, his gaze muddy and hungry but constantly locked on me) and he strokes my cheek as he whispers, with near unbearable fondness, "I love _you_."

I can't respond to that (if I try I will never stop; my outpouring of affection for this broken soldier, my blogger and lover and everything in between, will wash him away) so instead I quicken my hand and slide my tongue, once, over the slit of his cock. He groans softly, his fingers tightening their hold in my hair, and it reminds me: "The little death, John."

"Hmm?" I don't think he's capable of speech at this point, not with his eyes so hazy and his chest rising and falling in such rapid turns, but I know he'll understand me.

"French colloquialism," I say in between surreptitious licks, "for orgasm." I swallow him down, release him. I'm panting as I manage, shakily, "John, I want to watch you _die_."

His hips are bucking and I don't tease him now; I take the length of him, circle my tongue, listen to the lovely noises he makes. "God, Sherlock," he gasps. Clearing his throat, he mumbles, "Thought you said it wasn't dirty talk, that French bit."

I pull away from him just long enough to say, "It wasn't."

"Could've fooled me." Anything else John wants to say is swept away in a loud, trembling moan. The toes of his left foot curl; I recognise the signal. He's close.

A few more strokes, a few more deep sucks, the careful placement of my thumb on his perineum- and then it happens: John dies, the smallest death. And it's beautiful. It's every crime scene I've examined, every sound I've ever drawn from my violin, every careful stitch in my favorite purple shirt and every chemical reaction in recorded history. _La petite mort_: my gift to John.

I slide my way back up his body, tasting his flesh as I go, and settle my head just under his chin. I can feel John breathing beneath me, feel the thrum of his heart in his chest, his wrist, his neck. I don't have to measure his heart rate to know that it's elevated (but I do anyway, because I love the data and nothing about John is irrelevant). It feels safer to say it now, now that he's not looking at me and I know his mind is muzzy with endorphins, so I blurt out: "I love you, John."

"Mm." He picks up my hand and kisses his way down my fingers and to my palm. (I imagine he can taste himself there, and the image brings a flush of heat to my stomach.) "If that's true," he says, kissing the veins of my wrist, "then I'm the luckiest bastard on the planet."

"It's true," I gasp, because his mouth has moved to my neck and I'm suddenly breathless.

"Good." Lips trailing lower; thoughts becoming disordered, nonsensical. "When I thought…" He pauses in his pursuit, looks up at me with his chin jabbing gently into the softer skin of my abdomen. "It killed me. Thinking I was alone in this."

_John. _I shake my head, the smallest of movements and the only thing I can manage, and he smiles at me almost shyly before letting his mouth fall back to my skin. _I won't ever let him die again_, I think fiercely, _without me being there to watch it happen._


	24. In Which Mycroft Kidnaps the Boys

**In Which Mycroft Kidnaps the Boys**

_John:_

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock says, echoing my own thoughts tidily. (It's a touch unnerving, how often he does that.) But then he adds, with a fair dose of agitation, "It's one thing to snatch John up, God knows it's easy enough, but to have _me_ pulled off the street like some common-"

"No, wait a second," I splutter, sliding forward on those damned expensive leather seats, "when did it become 'fine' to kidnap me? That's not fine. That's _distinctly_ not fine."

Mycroft looks away from his tinted window with boredom looming on his smug features (and not just a hint of amusement, the mad bastard) and speaks to Sherlock as if I don't exist. "I would not have to kidnap you, my dear brother, if you would only concede to visit Mummy on your own more than once a decade."

"Mummy knows where I live," Sherlock sniffs, and I get the sudden image of a dark-haired, fair-skinned, impossibly posh older woman fainting at the sight of the congealing _human_ blood that's right now sitting in a bowl on our kitchen table. Apparently Mycroft is thinking along the same lines, because he makes a face and says, softly, "To my great displeasure, you're not mistaken. But I don't foresee Mummy darkening your doorway any time soon."

"Exactly right." Sherlock crosses his arms. "So why should I darken hers?"

"Sherlock." Oh, great, and now Mycroft's doing his "big brother" voice. (Which is not quite the same as his "Big Brother" voice. I've had the misfortune of encountering that one at least once so far.) "You are perfectly aware of Mummy's midsummer gala. I had Anthea email you, text you, even send you an actual invite in the post, which I have observed on your refrigerator door no less than three times in the last month. Please do not play the fool when we both know the act to be tiresome and unneeded."

"Oh, right." I rub my chin. "I did put that on the fridge door, Sherlock. Thought it sounded important." But God, that was ages ago. How many cases have we done since then? Five, at least. I glance over at Sherlock, who has narrowed his eyes at me as though I'm meant to rue the day I agreed with Mycroft about anything.

"Yes, thank you, Dr. Watson," Mycroft says, none too warmly. He gives me a dismissive look and then looks over at Sherlock before falling into a rapid, decidedly French diatribe. I'm lost on French, sadly (took German at school, and only for a few years at that) but Sherlock seems to be keeping up okay, returning fire in the same easy, unaccented tones as his brother.

I always wish I had the gift for language. God knows I tried hard enough with the Pashto. I was forever pestering our interpreter (don't think he much minded, though, as he always struck me as the lonely sort) and thumbing through that little book of mine. I haven't thought of that Pashto-to-English guide book in awhile, but all of a sudden I can almost feel it, the weather-worn pages so thick with dust and curling at the edges (from sweat, from use, from wind and rain). The thing was like a Bible to me, almost. I used to fall asleep with it, open to whatever phrase I was trying desperately to force through my stubborn skull. I remember even asking for it in hospital, after….well, after. And they gave it back to me, too, but it was useless, the pages all stuck together with dried blood because it had been in my breast pocket that day- _that impossibly bright day, the sound of men screaming beside me, the sharp stutter of an automatic rifle so close to my ear that it still rings, sometimes, when it's too quiet_-

"John?"

I look up to find both Holmes brothers looking at me closely, but it's Sherlock's face that makes my throat go dry. They both know what I was thinking about, somehow, as if my face is a projection screen for my memories, but Sherlock actually looks like…like it hurts him, somehow, that I've slipped away into the past and forgotten about how good things are here in the present. "All right?" he asks softly, and my damn heart actually leaps.

"Your French," I babble, because I'm caught off guard and I don't want to talk about that blasted guide book. "It's good. It sounds…good."

A slow smile creeps across Sherlock's face. "You don't speak French."

"Not a bit." And then, stupidly, I blurt: "But I like the way it sounds, coming from you. Like I could…" _Listen to it all day_, I think with a wince. Christ, I've got to remember not to think about the war at random because it's really throwing me off balance here. "Like I could maybe pick some up," I finish, aware that it's a sort of feeble addendum but not knowing what else to say. It's a struggle not to look at Mycroft, but even out of the corner of my eye I can see he's got one of his smarmy little eyebrows raised.

Sherlock blinks at me for a second before apparently deciding to set his current train of thought aside and get back to his argument with Mycroft. I'm ridiculously glad when they both seem to forget about me, but I'm careful not to drift back into my own thoughts since they're apparently dangerous today. First Afghanistan, then whatever that was with Sherlock…no, I'm definitely just going to fold my arms and think about telly. There's a programme I've been meaning to catch and I think it might come on tonight. Assuming we can get away from Mycroft, I might be able to talk Sherlock into watching it with me. A little Chinese takeaway, maybe I can pilfer some wine from Mrs. Hudson…yes, tonight might turn out nicely. We can sit on the sofa, and Sherlock can do that thing he does where he wiggles his toes down under my thigh and fidgets all evening. Oh, I put on like it bothers me, of course, but sometimes it's nice just to relax together, warm from wine and Sherlock's perpetually moving feet-

Great, there I've gone again. It seems all my thoughts today are leading back to him. He catches my eye and smiles at me- his real smile, not his put-on one- and I smile back reflexively, warmly. And I find I don't blame myself so much for letting Sherlock invade my every thought. After all, how can I think about anything else when he's smiling at me like that?


	25. In Which John and Sherlock Reminisce

**In John and Sherlock Reminisce**

_John:_

I stumble out of the bedroom, simultaneously stretching and stifling a yawn with my fist, to find Sherlock already awake and perched at the kitchen table, tinkering with something small and electronic. (I know I'm getting old and- much to my chagrin- I'm starting to get lost on electronics, but Sherlock's still light-years ahead of everyone else including, I'd be willing to bet, those bastard kids that hang around the entrance to the Baker Street tube station. Christ, I sound crotchety. Right, forget all that. Moving on.) I feel good today, thank God. A little stiff, especially in the shoulder, but nothing that I can't handle.

I squeeze Sherlock's shoulder as I pass him on the way to the coffee and as it begins to brew I turn to watch what he's doing, only to find that _he's_ watching _me_. And suddenly it doesn't matter that we've been together for years, doesn't matter that we made love last night or that I'm wearing his bathrobe (and _only_ his bathrobe) as we speak…I'm transported back in time, to the day we meet. His scrutinizing gaze never fails to bring a flush to my face. I try to itemize myself the way he might do: pillowcase creases across the right cheek; sleep-rumpled hair that's now more ash than dishwater; stiff shoulder; small smile; shining eyes. I bore of myself quickly and instead examine Sherlock, cataloguing him the way I imagine he catalogues me.

I never, ever bore of Sherlock.

He's still so beautiful, those arrogant features made no less proud or dignified with age. I remember when he first started getting those threads of silver in his dark curls, how nonchalant he pretended to be (and yet I saw him pluck them out with a grimace more than once, unbeknownst to the great detective himself that I was watching).

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, that deep voice still rough with sleep.

"The moment I realized," I say, because it's suddenly true. I don't have to say what it is I realized; we both know. The corner of his mouth lifts fractionally.

I pass him his mug and plant a small kiss on his lips before falling into the seat beside him, dragging the remains of the newspaper (he's clipped a few articles out, despite the fact that I've asked him no less than two hundred times to wait until I've read it to do so) over and flipping through them idly. There's something about a kidnapping in Switzerland; the report is vague but the feel of it seems right, seems like it might be up our alley, so I reread the article more carefully.

"Baskerville," Sherlock says suddenly. I look up, into his pale eyes, and give a tiny nod. I never told him that- that I first realized I loved him the night he told me we weren't even friends, our first night at Dartmoor- but he knew, somehow. I can't say I'm surprised.

I lick my lips and consider carefully; when did Sherlock realize he loved me? "The rooftop," I say softly. I don't like to talk about that, about the awful span of time when I thought Sherlock had left me for good, but I think it's right. I think that's when Sherlock knew. When he was saying goodbye.

Surprisingly, he shakes his head and takes a long sip from his mug. "The pool," he breezes, as if this isn't an astounding revelation.

"The pool?" My eyebrows must be touching my hairline, they're raised so high. "That soon?"

"Mm." He's gone back to tinkering with his gadget, a tiny screwdriver poised between thumb and forefinger. "Well, I had an inkling when I figured out you'd shot the cabbie. But the data felt insufficient. By the time you stepped out of the changing room at the pool…yes, I was sure."

"Sherlock," I breathe. "The cabbie…God, that was, what? My first night at Baker Street?"

He doesn't look up, but there's a hint of a smile on his face as he mutters, "Any imbecile could have observed it. We were a good fit."

"Still are," I grin, elbowing him gently. More seriously, I wonder, "Why did it take us so long?"

When Sherlock looks up at me, he's smiling: wide and genuine. "Because we're idiots."


	26. In Which Sherlock is Going Mad

**In Which Sherlock is Going Mad**

_Sherlock:_

My flatmate is driving me mad.

I suppose that's not fair, if I'm honest with myself (and I always am, even when I would prefer delusion); the heat is to blame for both John's antics and my ill temper. I loathe summer. There's something distinctly detestable about shorts; I can't even say the word- "_shorts_"- without a sneer. Thankfully John seems to agree with on this, at least, despite his invariable shortcomings regarding fashion (and it's for the best because if I were to see him prancing about in a pair of cut-off denims I would be compelled to set them aflame, regardless of whether he was wearing them at the time or no, and I don't think John would appreciate the rescue near as much as I would) because he always wears jeans, cords, or khakis outside the flat, whatever the weather.

It's _inside_ the flat that worries me.

Now, I'm not an overly modest man. Nudity bores me, people's reactions to nudity are always highly predictable and thus entirely uninteresting, and while I'm without any real vanity (no matter what John might imply) I recognize that my body is in reasonably decent physical condition (again, despite John's implications about my low BMI or the amount of nicotine I allow into my bloodstream). As such, I habitually strip myself of clothes whenever I find them to be bothersome. John is aware of this; if it disturbs him, he's never voiced his complaints. I prefer to shed my clothes in the sitting room, naturally, because my room is a sanctuary and I don't like to mess it up. (I make my bed as soon as I get out of it; each morning I inspect the periodic table on the wall to make sure it is level; my socks are indexed using a complex system that considers multiple variables, i.e. length, color, thickness, etc.) Besides, John does my laundry (probably; I've never concerned myself overmuch with it so it may well be Mrs. Hudson or one of Mycroft's P.A.s instead) so I'm essentially doing him a favor by leaving them on the floor in one of our shared spaces.

However: John _is _a modest man.

Until this summer, I had never seen John in anything skimpier than a dressing gown (and a garish one at that). It goes against his character to traipse around the house in flimsy cotton underpants. It flies in the face of all things John.

And yet, here we are. Mrs. Hudson has yet to attend to our air unit, claiming that our being two months behind on the rent has made it impossible to hire a repairman (and I will not ask Mycroft, no matter how many smug texts he sends me about our "situation" and the work he could give me at "an acceptable rate of pay", the loathsome gnat) and so John has taken to wearing next to nothing and sighing longingly whenever a gust of wind rolls through the windows and pushes through the stagnant air of our flat.

I can't stand it. He's become so…_distracting_.

I'm distracted by the gnarled skin on his shoulder, the harsh pink of the entry wound and the bright, moon-pale sunburst of disturbed flesh around it. I have wasted more minutes than I care to admit staring at that impossibly fascinating scar, wondering about its texture and whether the skin there would be more sensitive to touch or less (I expect less, but I still want to know for sure, want to watch John's face and measure his reactions as I run my fingers along it). I'm distracted by the sheen of sweat that makes his skin glisten whenever he walks through a sunbeam. I'm distracted by the trail of short, dark brown hairs that go from his navel down into his pants. The indents on each side of his tailbone; the tuft of hair under each arm; the dip of his clavicles and the faint impressions of his ribs: how can I think about anything else when he's parading this myriad of data around in front of me all day long? Inaccessible data. There I things I want to _know _and yet propriety demands I keep my hands to myself. I find propriety hateful, personally, and would gladly ignore it if I thought John would be anything close to amenable.

Unfortunately, touching other people (touching _John_) is one of my (few) weak areas. And in this instance I feel it best _not _to consult an expert. (I can imagine the conversation easily: "Hullo, Sarah, do you remember John Watson? Yes, this is his flatmate, the one you once referred to as 'impossible, incorrigible, and irritating to the extreme'. Might I perhaps get your opinion on the best way to 'chat John up', to use the common turn of phrase? I'm hoping he'll submit to a few of my more…personal experimental schemes." I might be lacking in social graces but even I'm aware of the limits for acceptable conversation, and certainly this falls outside that realm.)

It's all enough to bring a man to the very edges of sanity and allow him to peek over the edge and into the darkness below. (Damn that noir crime novel and its overly metaphorical language! John bought it for me and while the plot is feeble at best- obviously the butler committed the murder while the maid was committing the theft- I enjoy the satisfaction it gives John to see me reading it. Still, the effect it is having on my language is, frankly, appalling.)

Today is no different. Here comes John now, wearing nothing but a pair of thin white undershorts and a smile. I pull my legs up onto the couch and wrap my arms around my knees, scowling at him for good measure, but he just pads past me languidly, stretching a little as he goes into the kitchen. (His back, like everything else about him lately, draws my full and immediate attention.)

"Tea?" he asks, sounding chipper (slept well last night; enjoying his day off; just finished the book he's been reading; might have had a nap…yes, no, _definitely_ had a nap). I don't answer because I know exactly what he's going to say next. "Ugh!" he groans, and I allow myself the tiniest smile. "Is that…Sherlock, what _is_ that? I thought we discussed this: no body parts in the tea kettle."

"The phrase you used was 'human remains', John, and clearly a sheep's bladder falls outside the agreed-upon terms." I spare a glance into the kitchen. John has both his hands on his hips (I will not be distracted by his hips, the bones protruding just above those stupid little pants) and an exasperated expression on his face.

"Oh for God's sake," he mumbles, bringing his left hand up and squeezing the bridge of his nose, his eyes tightly closed. "Okay," he says, more loudly and with his jaw clenched, "_why _is there a sheep's bladder in the tea kettle?"

I slide off the couch, tugging my sheet close around me (too hot for clothes), and slink into the kitchen, leaning on the table. "Needed to determine the exact temperature at which a sheep's bladder will explode," I say, and he jumps at my proximity, his eyes flying open as he turns towards me. "I would have used the microwave but I felt it would be too…imprecise. Aside from that I was hoping to measure the distension of the bladder at regular intervals. Thus, the tea kettle."

"Cripes," John sighs, passing a hand down his face. "Okay, so…I'm no genius, mind, but the bladder seems to be pretty intact to me. Were you planning to conduct this little experiment soon, or…?"

"Yesterday." It's true. Yesterday I had every intention of seeing this through, as it's critical to the solution of a very, very cold case that I've been casually investigating in my spare time. "But I was distracted by-" A memory fills my mind so completely that I'm consumed by it: _the sheep's bladder landing in the kettle with an amusing squish; John's footsteps as he bounds up the stairs; the kitchen door swinging open; John; John's eyes, bright and nearly green in his excitement; the flush on John's cheeks; creases around John's eyes and mouth, the signs of genuine happiness; breathing slightly accelerated (both of us); pulse mildly elevated (both of us- but his more than mine, I think, although I wish fervently that I could put my fingers just below the point of his jaw and find out for certain); John's clinging gray tee-shirt and the smell of him, of sweat and aftershave and Mrs. Hudson's tea: I know that look, I know what he's going to say before he says it but I still feel a thrill of excitement as he pants, "Lestrade! Downstairs! Come on, we've got a case!"_

"The case," John smiles, wrong as usual. "That was fun, wasn't it? The steamboat and the counterfeit money. Never played a more interesting round of poker in my life."

"Yes," I drone, feigning boredom. I pick at my nails and drawl, "And yet your blog has suffered all morning without a new post. Worried that your desperately dull fandom may think less of you when you reveal your abominably poor poker skills?"

"You checked my blog this morning?" Sly smile; shining eyes. Point: John.

Huffing a breath, I fold my arms and sniff, "It's set as your homepage. I can hardly avoid it." John's teeth click together and his brow furrows. I've already cracked his new password. Not exactly difficult considering it was merely a variation of the last one ("sherlockyouhaveyourownlaptop"). Point: me.

John sighs, half resignation and half contentment, and rummages around before coming up with a roll of cellophane. I watch him carefully drop the bladder on to a square of the stuff before neatly wrapping it, marking it ("sheep bladder- DO NOT EAT"), and settling it on the lowest shelf of the refrigerator (which is supposedly _my_ shelf, although I consider all the shelves to be my shelves). He's humming softly and it takes an immense amount of willpower not to smile when I recognize the tune: Beethoven's "Minuet in G". I've been playing it all morning. _Oh, John._

The man is sending me around the colloquial twist.


	27. In Which John is at Work

**In Which John is at Work**

**[consulting_detective]: **Take a look at this. [Attachment: **Image1**]

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Jesus!

**[jhwatsonMD]: **You can't send me that kind of thing while I'm at work, Sherlock!

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Christ. Where'd they find her?

**[consulting_detective]: **Don't know. I found the image on an Internet forum.

**[consulting_detective]: **Judging by the grass and her style of clothing, however, I'd wager North America. Probably somewhere in the Great Plains.

**[consulting_detective]: **What do you think? Cause of death?

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Hard to say. God, she looks awful. I don't see any pooling of blood beneath the body but it's clear she's been bleed out somewhere. No other signs of injury except the bruises around her wrists. The lips and eyes…that was done by an animal, I'd say.

**[consulting_detective]: **Interesting. And the wound on the hip? It seems too precise to have been accidental/caused by wildlife.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **That's true. You know, it reminds me a lot of those cow mutilation stories.

**[consulting_detective]: **No, not this again! John, your fascination with science fiction both appalls and alarms me.

**[consulting_detective]: **Although I'll confess that the robotics aspect of that novel you've been reading is mildly intriguing.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Robots, huh? Okay! I've got some movies we can watch, now that I know what does it for you.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Wait.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **You read that book already?

**[consulting_detective]: **Not entirely.

**[consulting_detective]: **I've only read as much as you have. You leave it on your nightstand so when you're not home I just read until I've caught up with you.

**[consulting_detective]: **You're a very slow reader, by the way.

**[consulting_detective]: **I can't imagine how someone with your shortcomings (limited memory capacity in particular) can retain any of the plot at that speed.

**[consulting_detective]: **Still, I'm sure you can agree that the robot is, in fact, innocent.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Sherlock, you berk! Don't ruin it for me!

**[consulting_detective]: **Obvious, isn't it?

**[jhwatsonMD]: **NO. It isn't. And I'll thank you to NOT explain why you think it's so obvious, as I'd much rather actually read the story the way the author intended.

**[consulting_detective]: **Prose. Boring.

**[consulting_detective]: **John, I don't want you to panic.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **What?

**[jhwatsonMD]: **What? What am I not panicking about?

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Sherlock?

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Sherlock!

**[jhwatsonMD]: **If you don't answer me right now, I'm calling Lestrade.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Or Mycroft.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Or both.

**[consulting_detective]: **Never mind. Your laptop was beginning to make odd noises. I gave it a little shake and it seems fine now.

**[consulting_detective]:** I think it's the fan. I'd have to open the casing to confirm. Might do that tomorrow, if there's not a case on.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **No!

**[jhwatsonMD]: **No. Bloody hell, no. You have your own laptop! Tinker with that one!

**[consulting_detective]: **My laptop isn't the one making strange sounds. And I've told you, I don't "tinker".

**[jhwatsonMD]: **No, you just disassemble my things and then get bored and "forget" to put them back together.

**[consulting_detective]: **That has never happened.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Toaster. Lamp. Microwave (twice!). Headphones. And I'm sure you remember trying to give the TV a try.

**[consulting_detective]: **Those aren't your things. They're mutual, shared possessions.

**[consulting_detective]: **And those headphones belong to the moose.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **You are impossible.

**[consulting_detective]: **Shouldn't you be heading home?

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Oh. Lost track of time.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Yeah, I suppose I should.

**[consulting_detective]: **No, I've got a better idea. Meet me at Bart's in a half hour. Morgue. Or labs. Not sure which yet.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **Okay.

**[jhwatsonMD]: **See you soon. **(This message was not received. consulting_detective has signed off and will receive this message upon login.)**

**You have signed out! Good-bye!**


	28. In Which John and Sherlock Kiss

**In Which John and Sherlock Kiss**

_John:_

It happens the same way everything happens with us: quickly, unexpectedly, and entirely against my will.

One moment we're running down the street, breath ragged and feet pounding, and the next Sherlock is yanking me into an alcove and pressing his lips against mine.

"Sherlock," I gasp, and he shakes his head.

"Shh, we're being followed," he whispers, illogically. I can't connect point A (Sherlock's lips, full and softer than I expected) and point B (the danger of a tail on a case). It doesn't matter; every thought in my head gets washed away as Sherlock brings his mouth to mine again. This time I'm not so stunned and I kiss back, my hands pushing at his coat and settling on the sharp bones of his hips. Sherlock's mouth is warm and wet and eager; I'm not used to tipping my head up into a kiss, nor have I ever felt a flat chest pressed against my own like this, but I don't mind. God, I really don't mind. This is good, this is better than good, this is _brilliant_-

Sherlock steps away and gives me an odd, amused look. "Well done," he says, and for one really strange second I think he's evaluating the kiss. "I'm sure our man found that to be entirely believable."

Oh.

Of course.

Looking down the alley, Sherlock rubs absently at his lips (I can still feel the echo of them on mine) and says, "Whether he actually believed we were just having a quick snog or not, it's too risky to follow him now. He'll recognize our clothes."

"Right," I say, my voice rough. I clear my throat; Sherlock gives me another odd look.

"Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine." I step out of the alcove and straighten my jumper. "Just…a bit thrown, but fine."

Sherlock's mouth rises on one side. "Sorry, improv. I imagined five different scenarios in which two men would be out of breath and in a disused alleyway; three were impossible without disguises and I think you would have found the fourth objectionable. Hence…" He shrugs, waving at the alcove.

"Right," I say again, because I really can't manage much more than that right now.

"So…" Is this Sherlock Holmes being awkward? Genuinely awkward? The wonders of this night never cease. "We should…"

_Do that again. Now. And then again later, but with less clothes._

Where in God's name did _that_ come from?

I blink the thought away and mumble, "Track them, maybe? If we keep at a distance…"

"Mmm, well," Sherlock says, tapping at his lips again (and it doesn't help at all, not when I'm trying not to stare at that damned mouth of his), "I'm reasonably certain they're headed to the docks. It could be hit-or-miss, but I suppose it's worth a try. Shall we?"

"Yes, of course," I quip, happy to have something else to think about besides Sherlock's hips in my hands and the way he tasted. I'm confused, incredibly confused, but there's one thing I'm sure of: no way in hell is _this_ winding up on my blog.


	29. In Which Mrs Hudson Interrupts

**In Which Mrs. Hudson Interrupts**

_John:_

Sherlock is sleeping.

_Actually _sleeping.

I'd be pleased pink if it weren't for the minor issue of his sleeping in _my _ruddy bed. Oh, even that's not so bad, I suppose, until you figure in the fact that he's stretched out like a cat and definitely not wearing pyjamas. Is he wearing pants? I can't tell; he's all wrapped up in a sheet. _My _sheet. And unlike Sherlock I don't have Mycroft's personal assistants scuttling in to do my washing up once a week. That sheet is definitely going in _his _laundry bin, the prat.

All right. Now what? It's a cold morning and I only left my bed to nip down to the shops for some tea. Later I've got some things planned, tentatively (one can never truly plan, with a flatmate like Sherlock Holmes), but what I wanted now was a little lie down, maybe break out that novel I've been working on for ages or do a little writing up for my blog. I could go down to the sofa but it's cold down there, colder than up here anyway, and I really wanted to relax in my own bed-

"Oh, lie down already," Sherlock grumbles, not lifting his face from the mattress. "I can't sleep with you thinking so loudly."

"Maybe you should try sleeping in your own bed, then," I say, crossing my arms.

"My bed, cold. Your bed, warm."

Hard to argue the facts, and the man _is _a genius. I set my mug down on the bedside table and yawn. It should be awkward, I suppose, but this is Sherlock. I've gotten reasonably used to the lack of personal space and privacy. Scooping up my novel (hate working on my blog when Sherlock's around, he always corrects me or makes little disapproving sounds over my shoulder), I sit down on the edge of the bed and nudge him with my elbow. "Budge over."

Sherlock makes a noise that sounds like "hnng", but he does scoot infinitesimally closer to the right side of the bed so I consider it a victory. I swing my legs up, cross them at the ankles, and settle my back against the headboard. Yes, this is nice. Cozy, even. Nice mug of tea, a good book, the warmth of another person pressed against my leg-

Wait.

I move my book down and look at my legs as though needing verification. Well, consider it verifiable fact: Sherlock has shifted close enough to me that his back is resting against my leg. In fact, his curly head is settled against my hip and his ice cold feet are sliding along my (corduroy-clad) calves. "Christ!" I hiss as he tucks them up under my legs, frosty toes brushing the bare skin off my ankles. Cold bastard. I tap my elbow against his head and say, "Quit that; you're freezing."

"Mm," Sherlock hums in agreement, but he doesn't move. And…it's not so bad. His feet are warming up now, at least, and if I push them back into the cold they'll just worm their way back under again and I'll have to suffer anew. I huff a little breath so he knows I've put up _some _resistance to this little arrangement before turning my attention back to the book. Not bad, this. I'm something of a sci-fi junkie (which Sherlock detests, although I really do think I'm bringing him around on Doctor Who even if he does root for the bad guys more often than not) and this novel is satisfying enough. Maybe a little bit _wordy_. But not bad.

I reread the same paragraph four times before I realize I'm only half-awake. Sherlock is snoring softly (I don't even feel like they can be called snores, honestly- more like deep breaths) and my tea's gone cold and it's half eleven but there's nothing on so…

Compromise: I'll lie down fully, but I'll try to keep reading. Sounds fair. I shimmy down- Sherlock shifts, sighs, settles- and lie on my back, my ankles still crossed and the book settled on my stomach. Whether I intend to read more or not quickly becomes a moot point; almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, I'm asleep.

x

I wake up to an armful of sleeping consulting detective.

At some point I've turned on to my side and eased one of my arms under Sherlock's warm neck. My other arm is wrapped around his middle, hand tucked into the sheet and lying, loose-fingered, on the firm, bare flesh of his stomach. I'm pressed against him, face snuggled in dark curls.

As soon as I realize this I cry "oh!" and jump back, wrenching my arm out from under him. Sherlock makes little unhappy noises as I sit up, rubbing at my eyes, horrified.

"Sorry, sorry!" I insist as Sherlock turns and squints at me, his mouth pouted. "I fell asleep and…y'know…habit and all that. Sorry. Really, truly sorry."

"Idiot," Sherlock sighs. "I'm cold now."

I blink at him for a few moments, aware I look stupid and not caring. "I…uh, sorry?"

Sherlock makes a small, growly sound and sits up, wiping blearily at his face. "If you're having some sort of emotional crisis, can you have it somewhere else? I'm not quite fully awake yet."

Now I really look stupid; my mouth is opening and closing in a way that's surely reminiscent of a goldfish. "You…this…this is still my room, you know!"

"Wow, John, what a brilliant deduction," Sherlock drawls, his hand rummaging about in his unruly hair. "It's little wonder I keep you around."

"Now, look here-"

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson shouts, and I'm struck by two sudden, independent thoughts: _that doesn't sound good _and _oh god, she'll know we were both up here and Sherlock probably isn't even wearing pants and oh god oh god this is not good_. "You've got another one!"

"Oh, good." Sherlock eases off the bed and stretches, somehow maintaining his dignity and _not _losing his (my) sheet. "A case." He pads over to the doorway and opens the door before shooting me a questioning look. "Coming? Could be interesting."

I look down at my discarded book and the bed that's suddenly much too cold and sigh. "Right behind you," I say, and bugger it all: I follow him out, and I barely even consider tripping him on that damned sheet.


	30. In Which John Enumerates

**In Which John Enumerates**

I, John Hamish Watson, at the insistence of my incessant flatmate/colleague/best friend/lover, hereby proclaim everything that follows (of _my _writing- there's no accounting for Sherlock's) to be as close to absolute truth as I can bloody well make it. Satisfied? [_Hardly. SH_]

Now, without further ado, a full and detailed account of every person I've considered a "lover" in my entire lifetime. I'd sigh "how tedious" but I'm pretty sure that's your job, love. [_Your wit continues to astound. SH_]

Annabelle Perkins, aged 16. I was 17 at the time. Annie was blonde then (she's brunette now, saw her on facebook) and really, really fit. I couldn't believe she fancied me but then again the military hadn't got hold of me yet so I wasn't half as cocky. I remember really working Annie up to the task because I was a virgin and she wasn't, which bothered me. Let's see…we were in my dad's hideous gunmetal grey Ford Anglia. Backseat. I think it lasted all of four minutes. Probably the most rubbish sex I had in my entire life, but I was pretty thrilled about it afterwards. I think we dated for another few months after that but not seriously, and then Annie dumped me for some bloke in the city and next I heard she was sidled up with two kids and that was that. [_You managed to leave out almost all the pertinent details, of course, and yet I still find this account oddly fascinating. SH_]

Molly Wiggins, aged 20. I was 19 at the time. Pre-med, both of us. Molly really liked Indian food and crap telly, but she wasn't terribly keen on sex. We dated for four years (I was reasonably sure we'd get married, at the time) but we were a year in before we ever made love. It was much, much nicer than it was with Annie, probably because I actually loved Molly (being fair to myself, I _thought_ I loved Annie…teenagers don't really know any better about these things, most of time) but maybe also because we waited so long. Molly was a bit strict about things like positions and what types of sex were okay and whether or not the light was meant to be, but I cared about her so I went with it. We broke up mutually once we went away to separate med schools. Things had gotten sort of rote at that point anyway and neither of us much fancied the idea of a long distance deal, so…there you go. [_Interesting display of sentiment. "Made love", etc. I would be curious about what changed your mind on marriage, but the answer seems obvious. Molly was both dull and domineering, and while I think you can easily deal with one of the factors, I don't imagine you would find both acceptable for long. SH_]

Reeta James, aged 25. I was 23 at the time. Reeta was…wild. She was the first girl I dated that I actually worried would cheat on me, and the first girl I dated that actually _did _cheat on me. Considering I was at med school at the time, it was a little hard to keep up with her but she was knock-out gorgeous, curves that had to be seen to be believed and so on (I could go on, Sherlock, I really could, but I'm so considerate that I won't even think of it), so I really did try. Sex with Reeta made me wonder if I'd maybe been doing it wrong all the other times. She taught me a lot of the little tricks all my future girlfriends appreciated, but in the end we weren't together very long (six months, maybe?) because, as I said, she was something of a cheater. [_Have you ever used any of Reeta's tricks on me? SH_] [Most of them don't translate well, dear, considering anatomy, but yes. A few.] [_I require you to show me which tricks, precisely. Now. SH_]

(Right, back to it then.) Emily Thompson, aged 24. I was also 24 at the time. Both of us were med students, surgery focus. Em wanted to work in an A&E trauma unit; I was still picturing a private practice, doing non-emergency surgeries and living a quiet country life. Em and I were together right until the day I went to the recruiter's office and joined up. Unsurprisingly, since we'd been bickering about it since I'd gotten the idea, she broke up with me the minute I told her I'd done it. As far as the sex goes, it was good. A bit vanilla after my stint with Reeta, but nice because I trusted Em and I never I'd never tear of her clothes and find some other man's love bites all over her hips. [_I presume that exact scenario played out with Reeta. SH_] [You presume correctly.] [_How did you react? SH_] [I shouted abuse at her a half hour and then we had mad, frenzied sex on the kitchen floor. So about how you'd expect.] [_John, you continue to amaze me. SH_]

Now, here you'll notice a gap in my account. I was in the military from the time I was 25 to the time I was 38, and in that time I never had what you'd call a steady girlfriend. Lots of one night stands, sure, while I was on leave or stationed at a base that wasn't in a warzone (and even then, sometimes, if I could get it), but no girlfriends. I don't count one night stands as "lovers". I count them as "shags". If you want me to list all my shags, too bad. I can tell you that my exact number is fifty-seven, that I remember almost all of their names, and that you're the only bloke on the list. Beyond that, the details get fuzzy. [_Fair enough. I may have you draw up a list of all the names you can recall at some point, but for now you get a reprieve. SH_]

Sarah Sawyer, aged 36. I was 39 at the time. I am absolutely not telling you any details about what sex was like with Sarah, Sherlock. You know her. That is more than a little not on. No. [_Aren't we meant to be sharing? I thought that's what normal people do, share all the sordid details of their love lives with their partners. SH_] [We're not normal people, we're us. And don't call us "partners". It sounds weird.] [_Fine. Then I guess I'm not going to get details about the next several women either, am I? SH_] [Definitely not.]

Darla Pearson, aged 34. I was 39 at the time. I think you once referred to her as "the one with the spots", if I'm not mistaken. [_You know you're not. And she was rather spotty. SH_]

Angela Townsend, aged 38. I was 39 at the time. You took a certain joy in asking her how she managed to break her nose on five separate occasions. [_Oh, I loathed this one. She smelled strange, like citrus and dog urine. SH_]

Jeanette Mayweather, aged 35. I was 40 at the time. I think she was the first girlfriend to actually, outwardly accuse me of being in love with you. Perceptive girl, that. [_She wasn't being perceptive, John, you were just being obvious. SH_] [Oh, is that why you looked like that when I kissed you that first time?] [_Are we counting first time for real or first time for a case? Because our first technical kiss was for a case, incited by me, and left you rather breathless as I recall. SH_] [Arrogant sod.]

Sherlock Holmes, aged 37. I was 41 at the time. Don't know what drew me, considering what an enormous prat he was, but there you have it. I seem to remember working towards sex for a _long _time with this one. Every time I was ready, he wasn't. Every time he was ready, I wasn't. Mixed signals, stupid tiffs. Eventually we managed, but then the silly bugger had to go and die. [_Scathing. My heart hurts, John. SH_]

Mary Morstan, aged 39. I was 43 at the time. I'm going to be deadly serious for a moment and say that Mary was my wife, that I loved her, and that I respect her too much to divulge anything more of our relationship than what you already know. I know you didn't know her very well, Sherlock, but Mary was good to me while you were gone and sometimes she was the only reason I kept it together as well as I did. So please, leave it at that. [_Fine. "Leave well enough alone" and all that. Very well. SH_]

Sherlock Holmes, aged 41. I was 45 at the time. I distinctly recall this curly-headed sop coming back from the dead and putting me in quite the predicament. That was an…interesting year. I wanted you so badly, Sherlock, it hurt sometimes. You were the only person I ever considering cheating with, love, and you can't deny you intentionally tried to tempt me more than once. But I think it was well worth the wait. [_Of course I tried to tempt you. I spent three years on the Continent and beyond and came home desperate for a shower and shag only to find my flat disused and my shagging partner hitched. But yes, I agree; well worth the wait. I would have waited much longer, of course. For the rest of my life, if you'd forced me. SH_] [I could never be so cruel.] [_No, I don't think you could. I'm glad you didn't. SH_] [Me, too.]

And so the list ends, though one never knows what the future might hold. [_I think in this case one certainly does. SH_] [My only hopes for the future involve jammie dodgers, a cup of hot tea, and at some point this evening you, in significantly less clothing. Beyond that, I'm mystified.] [_You're always mystified, John, but in this case I can assure I have the future well in hand. We're going to solve cases until we're both too old to be of any use, and then we're going to retire to Sussex where I will do something that isn't mundane (I haven't decided yet, but my principle considerations are experiments involving quantam mechanics or keeping bees) and you will either take patients or sit back and watch me be amazing. No more names on this list, and no arguments to the contrary. Now, I think you mentioned something about tea. SH_] [Yes, dear.]


	31. In Which John and Sherlock Kiss Again

**In Which John and Sherlock Kiss (Properly)**

_Sherlock:_

Every moment of this evening has been carefully calculated to my exact specifications.

Well, nearly. It was rather fortuitous that we'd finished a case only hours before, and that Lestrade (who, for once, didn't muck things up entirely) announced an impromptu gathering at his favourite local. John nearly begged out of it, knowing how much I despise such events, and it gave me quite the leg-up when I interrupted him and told Lestrade we'd both be joining him and the Yarders for a few quick drinks. John, I think, was already more inclined to my persuasions at that point, judging by the dopey little smile he kept shooting me in the cab.

The rest, however, is all of my own devising.

I have purchased three drinks for John this evening (and smiled uneasily when the Yarders teased him after the first one. How was I to know that playing at James Bond was only meant for the flat? After that I left off with the martinis and bought him beer instead), which is exactly the appropriate amount to ensure that while he isn't drunk, he is lubricated enough to relax and let go of some of his more pervasive inhibitions. Evidence: John's arm is currently slung over Lestrade's shoulder (and Lestrade is a great deal more sodden than him, or in fact anyone else here) and he's singing, quite cheerfully, an off-key rendition of "My Girl". For whatever reason, Lestrade is also trying to sing but keeps becoming distracted by his fingers, which appear to be snapping intermittently of their own accord.

Have I ever before been quite so nervous about the potential results of an experiment? No; succeed or fail, it's all data. But not this time.

"John," I say, tugging at his jacket and interrupting him just as he's winding up for another go at the chorus. He blinks owlishly at me. "May I have a word?"

John shrugs and follows me, as blindly as ever, out through the side door and into the alley. I very carefully scrutinized this alley earlier, while John was in the lavatory, and I found it acceptable. Closed on one end and slim, quiet, entirely devoid of over-enthusiastic journalists and nosy photographers (damn John's ever-popular blog!) and clean enough that I don't think John will find the setting too off-putting.

"What is it?" John asks, his voice low. Perhaps he's noticed the way I'm double-checking the alley for paparazzi. "Knew I should've brought my gun."

"What, to the pub?" I shook my head. "No…no, it's nothing like that."

John's eyes are only very slightly unfocused, but I can tell he's searching my face for some clue as to the purpose of this admittedly strange and clandestine meeting. Why am I so damned nervous? It's very simple, after all; there are only two possible outcomes, and the one I want appears to be the most probable. So, what? "Sherlock?" John asks, after a moment of quiet.

I lick my lips, clear my throat. "John, I…" I press my palms together, interlocking my fingers and grimacing a little at the clamminess. "I…I had hoped to speak to you about a matter of a personal nature."

John's eyebrows shoot straight up. "Okay," he says slowly, rubbing his chin. "How personal?"

"Very."

"Right." He clears his throat and says, "Well…all right. I can't promise I'll be able to help but…I'll try, Sherlock. What do you need?" John looks uncomfortable and I'm not sure why; does he think I'm going to ask him for help "chatting someone up"? Or maybe he suspects it's something to do with hygiene or bodily functions.

Two possible outcomes. John responds positively, or he doesn't. I can do this, certainly. I've never been afraid of possibility before; surely I have no interest in starting now. "John I'd like to make a proposition," I rush, knowing I'm tumbling over my words slightly but needing to get them out of me as quickly as possible. Which is ridiculous, of course, because I know what we talked about at Dartmoor and I know how he's been looking at me and all the data points in this direction, so _why _are my palms so damned sweaty? "I…I think it could be beneficial to us both, you see, and you responded very positively when I kissed you before. True, it was for a case, but there are other pertinent observations I've made since our conversation at Baskerville and I thought, perhaps, that you might like to…to…" I trail off. John is looking at me as though I've gone completely mad. "Though of course if you're not keen," I add, quickly, "we could…just delete all of this. Just, all of it. And go back to how things were. If you want."

"I…" John rubs the back of his neck, his eyes huge and focused steadily on mine. "Sherlock, are you coming on to me?"

The words almost make me wince but the tone is calm if incredulous, not at all disgusted or disturbed. "Yes," I say softly, a little startled at the hoarseness in my voice.

John's face changes so rapidly I have to flit my eyes over it to catch everything. Pupils dilate; mouth parts; lines soften. He swallows, twice, and clears his throat. "Idiot," he whispers, and then he presses me against the wall, hands bunched in my lapels and dragging me downwards so that I'm slouched a little, our eyes level. "Idiot," he says again, his voice rough, "did you really think I wouldn't want this?"

"I…" Whatever stupid drivel I'm about to expel is quickly discarded, my tongue put to better employ. Kissing John before was nice, his lips chapped but pleasant and his hands firm but gentle on my hips. This isn't nice; this is _terrifying_, and so good I'm trembling and groaning only thirty seconds in. John's mouth tastes like beer and tapas and something a little bit bitter and sharp (the martini?). His hands are rough, rucking up my shirt and yanking it free of my trousers so that he can slip warm palms along my ribs. This is new and almost more than I can handle, but it's fine until he slides down just a little and then up again, bucking our hips together. The noise that escapes me is half-cry, half-gasp, and I push him away forcefully, shuddering all over.

"Shit," John says, panting, and then, "Sorry, shit, Sherlock I'm sorry-"

"No." I'm gasping, shaking. I press my palms against the wall in an attempt to steady myself. "No, it's…I just…"

"Too much?" John ventures, stepping back towards me. He reaches towards me and falters, his hand falling to his side.

"You can…" I've never been so ineloquent in my life. "You can touch me, just not…"

John nods, his face grave, and runs his hand down my cheek. It's embarrassing, the way his touch makes me shiver and ache. I want more, but _more _is too much. "Hey," John says softly, still cupping my face, "it's fine. It's all fine. Whatever you want, Sherlock."

"John," I try, regaining some amount of control over myself. "If you- if you hold perfectly still-"

Bless the man; he immediately freezes, his face tipped up towards mine, and I bend down and kiss him very gently, just a press of lips and a hint of mingled breath. John follows my lead beautifully, waiting until I slide my tongue along his bottom lip before he parts his lips and allows me inside. His hands are perfectly still at his sides; his tongue brushes mine but he doesn't dominate the kiss. When I step forward and take his face in my hands, I sense rather than see his own hands twitch, but they stay mercifully away and when I release him his eyes are dark and hungry but his voice is gentle as he asks, "Okay?"

"Okay," I answer, amazed and a little thrown by the depth of my own voice.

"We should probably go back inside," John whispers, still breathing hard.

I press my forehead to his and close my eyes, feeling both foolish and grateful. "I'm sorry."

"Idiot," he laughs, surprising me. His hands circle my wrists and he grins. "What on earth have you got to be sorry about?"

Clearing my throat, I mumble, "In my mind this involved mutual orgasms and chemically-induced pair bonding."

"In your…" John shakes his head, runs a hand down his face. "It might surprise you to learn that I prefer orgasms in my own bed as opposed to darkened alleys. Speaking of, why all the alleys? We live together, I'm sure you've noticed. You could snog me just about anywhere but you keep picking alleys for some reason."

My turn to laugh; John is the only person capable of doing this, making me laugh even when I'm uncomfortable. "I thought perhaps attempting this at home would be overwhelming. The pressures of continued cohabitation would be all too present and perhaps skew the results."

"You thought I'd kiss you so I could keep my low rent," John says disappointedly.

"I thought you wouldn't because we already live together and it might seem like things were moving too quickly," I clarify, and John laughs again.

"Quickly? Christ. I've heard of glaciers that move faster than we've done." He chuckles and then says, more seriously, "Don't worry about me. We'll take this at whatever pace you need."

I don't know what to say to that (I only know it makes my hands sweaty and my face hot, again) so I clear my throat and say, "Shall we?"

John's mouth quirks. "Your, um…" He gestures towards my shirt, which is still mostly untucked and wildly wrinkled.

"Ah." I make a pitiful attempt at straightening it. "Thanks."

We make our way back inside, John in front of me, and I hear Lestrade before I see him. "John Watson! You sodding bastard! Three fucking Continents indeed, you look a right mess! Where's the…" Lestrade's eyes settle on me as I come up behind John and lean against the bar, trying not to look as disheveled as I feel. His eyes go wide. "…lucky…girl…" He coughs, clears his throat, and looks down at his shoes. "Right."

I glance over at John, expecting him to be mortified, but other than the slight tinge of pink across his cheeks he looks as calm and collected as ever. "Did everyone else call it a night?" His voice is so steady that I have to look at him more closely. Is he faking? No, he really doesn't mind. Lestrade knows and he doesn't mind. Suddenly I feel very anxious to get home.

"Erm, yeah." Lestrade scratches at his hair absently. "I…uh…didn't want to go without saying good night, and…well, thanks. For your help." His eyes jump from mine to John's and back again. "Right, well, I'm making a bloody nuisance of myself so I think I'll be heading out. Night, John. Night, Sherlock." He nods at us both and rubs at his eyes, muttering, "bleeding hell," as he slips away.

John looks at me and smiles radiantly. "Lestrade's taking it well."

And that's it: I'm laughing again, unable to feel awkward with John looking at me like that. "Let's go home," I say, desperate to kiss him again.

"God, yes," John says, still grinning.


	32. In Which Sherlock is Whole

**In Which Sherlock is Whole**

_Sherlock:_

I'm not asleep. Not quite. I'm not quite awake, either. Admittedly this little adventure of mine has left me in a state of physical exhaustion so profound that even at half ten, lying on John Watson's battered, lumpy sofa, I can't keep my eyes open.

I've been back in London for five days, but until today it meant nothing to me, nothing. I used to love London for her gritty underworld and constant noise, for the part of this city that never sleeps. Now my focus has narrowed to a pinpoint; there is nothing in London I have missed so much as John. This sofa smells like him, faintly (and _her _to a greater extent, though I have been trying- and failing- to ignore her existence entirely) and if I listen very carefully I can hear him breathing, slow and steady, through the open bedroom door. John. I wonder vaguely what he would do if I tip-toed into his martial chamber and shook him gently awake, if I shared plans for leaving this wretched life- wife, job, creaky flat and secondhand furniture- behind in a whisper. Would he come?

No. The simple answer is no. My John is an honest man, and if he were to leave he'd do it in daylight, not like a coward in the night. But people like John don't make unwise decisions in the stark reality of morning; running away with me (to Baker Street? Paris? anywhere but here?) is the sort of foolish flight of fancy one considers on a sleepless night, not the proper judgment call one makes after a solid breakfast.

Footsteps, there, in the bedroom. My eyes snap open; have I been misled? Is John in some danger? No, of course not. It's only John, making his slow way (leg's acting up again, I see) towards the sitting room. I listen to him shuffle towards me and I close my eyes again, let him think I'm asleep.

John walks right up to the sofa and stands beside it for a long moment, silent. I contemplate peeking at him but curiosity bids me to wait, to see what he's going to do. He makes a small noise, something like a cross between a laugh and a startled gasp, and then- to my bewilderment- he sinks down to his knees. Again, silence. I have watched John sleep more times than I can count, have done so since almost immediately after he moved into 221B, but this feels different from my silent observations. I don't think John is counting my breaths or watching the movement behind my eyelids to find what stage of the REM cycle I'm on; he's just watching, holding vigil, reassuring himself that I'm alive.

His hand slips into my hair, warm and gentle, his fingers carefully searching my skull, and I can't sham sleep any longer. I open my eyes and press my head into his palm. John's face is fascinating; his eyes wide and his mouth small. There is an anguish there that does something strange and terrible to my stomach, something that twists and hurts.

John's hand is still stroking the same spot on my skull but his eyes are roving my face, his throat constricting again and again. Hoarsely, John says, "That day….you were- you were broken. Right here." His thumb brushes, presses, and now his touch and the hollow look in his eyes make sense.

"Ah," I say softly, taking his other hand and bringing it to my lips. I kiss his knuckles, one by one. "And now I'm not."

"And now you're not," John echoes, his voice small and full of wonder. "Sherlock…" He leans towards me, presses his forehead to mine, and I feel a splash of warmth hit my nose; John is crying. I don't think he's even aware of it, but he's crying. His hand moves to the back of my neck and he says, his voice shuddering, "I loved you so much, you bloody idiot."

I can feel his breath on my cheek, warm and a little damp. If I kissed him now, would he let me? I swallow (reflexive but telling, impossible to fight and so obvious, too obvious) and whisper, "I love you still."

The hitch in John's breath is almost like a sob in this small space, in this tiny quiet flat with his face so close to mine. "Go to sleep," he says, roughly, leaning away from me and clearing his throat. "I shouldn't have woken you." He sits back and brushes at his face, stands and does it again.

"John." I start to sit up; John shakes his head.

"Sleep." He sets his hands on his hips and watches me for a moment, his eyes fond. "I'll see you in the morning," he says, like idea is miraculous. I suppose, in some ways, it is.

"Yes," I agree, lying back down and closing my eyes. "You will."


End file.
